


From Life

by green_violin_bow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg Models, Happy Ending, M/M, Mycroft Draws, and we wouldn’t all be in this predicament, for sure, if Mark hadn’t done that documentary this wouldn’t’ve happened, implied past boarding school abuse, past bullying, properly greasy character, sigh, you can see what happens here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-06-27 18:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15691263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: Greg’s nervous. Climbing the stairs to the artist’s studio, his stomach squirms. It’s been a long time – decades – since he last did this. He just hopes the guy isn’t disappointed with the model he’s hired. (He’d’ve done it without pay, honestly, it’s just a need to do something different – something he’d done when he was young, before…before the world got so hard – only the guy had insisted.)The door stands ajar, and Greg pushes it further open. He clears his throat, about to ask if there’s anyone there; and then he sees him, silhouetted against the rain-rivuleted window.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Blasted Mark went and made a documentary about John Minton, in which he [looked all brooding and delightful](https://green-violin-bow.tumblr.com/post/176987975915/gregs-nervous-climbing-the-stairs-to-the) at a window in the artist's studio. Sigh. Unhelpful. It caused all this. ;) ❤️

Greg’s nervous. Climbing the stairs to the artist’s studio, his stomach squirms. It’s been a long time – _decades_ – since he last did this. He just hopes the guy isn’t disappointed with the model he’s hired. (He’d’ve done it without pay, honestly, it’s just a need to do something different – something he’d done when he was young, before…before the world got so hard – only the guy had insisted.)

The door stands ajar, and Greg pushes it further open. He clears his throat, about to ask if there’s anyone there; and then he sees him, silhouetted against the rain-rivuleted window.

Afterwards, Greg can’t pinpoint the exact moment at which he realises – perhaps, already, in silhouette – perhaps as he turns –

His hands are in his pockets – light slacks, and a loose, smock-like blue shirt – he looks relaxed, shoulders a little rounded. Thoughtful, maybe, but comfortable in his environment.

He turns, withdrawing his hands from his pockets, clearly ready to step away from the window, hold out his hand, make the acquaintance of his new model. He freezes, and even against the light Greg can see the shocked widening of his eyes.

Greg’s heart kicks, plummets. “Er,” he says; he swallows. “Unless Sherlock’s misinformed me, I don’t think your name’s John Grant.”

Mycroft’s body language changes: his spine straightens, his chin lifts. Even wearing these clothes, he’s once again the tall, cool, put-together man Greg knows. Only once or twice has Greg seen the cracks in that façade, and then only around Sherlock.

“Yes,” says Mycroft, wearing the sideways smirk that he uses to infuriate Sherlock without fail. “Well Detective Inspector, I have no doubt Sherlock has misinformed you about _many_ things, but my name is not one of them. Intended as a harmless subterfuge, I assure you; in this case, with –” he hesitates, “– unfortunate consequences.” He folds his hands on the back of the chair in front of him. “Naturally I shall pay for the trouble of your having come here.”

Greg runs a hand through his hair, wet from the rain. “Shit. Guess I only gave you my first name when I answered the ad.”

Mycroft gives a quick flick of a half-smile. “Yes.”

Outside, the wind lashes rain against the window. In the corner, Greg can see a kettle and a small fridge. He thinks longingly about a cup of tea, and not having to go back outside. “Listen,” he says, slowly, finding Mycroft’s eyes. “Obviously I can’t – y’know – get me kit off – but if you want me to model anyway? We can still use the hour. I know you won’t want to call me back, but maybe I can still be useful, for now –” he shrugs. “Better than nothing, right?”

Mycroft presses his lips together, and takes a breath. His eyes run slowly over Greg, who finds himself suddenly wishing he’d dressed with more care. He’d rushed back from work, taken a shower, and thrown on jeans and a jumper. It’s summer – still light in the evening – not that you’d know it, from the weather.

Greg shuffles his feet. “Sorry. Didn’t dress for this. Thought I’d be taking it all off, anyway,” he adds, with an awkward huff of laughter.

“Yes,” says Mycroft, then gives a quick shake of the head. “I mean – yes. I appreciate your offer. I should welcome being able to use the time, if –” he clears his throat slightly.

“’F’course,” smiles Greg. “’M’not doing anything else. Great. Okay.” There’s a slightly awkward pause, then he pulls off his coat. “Shall I –” he motions to the hooks just inside the door.

“Yes. Please do,” says Mycroft. He glances away, then back. “Can I offer you a cup of tea? I do have milk.”

“God, yeah, please,” smiles Greg. He pushes his wet shoes off just inside the door, and pads over to join Mycroft at the kettle. “’M’soaked after just a minute’s walk from the Tube.” He looks around. “So’re you new to this place? Can’t see any of your work.”

Mycroft fills the kettle at the sink, and sets it boiling. He moves gracefully, but keeps his back straight, his chin high. “I am afraid I have allowed art, as a hobby, to languish for a long time, Detective Inspector.”

“Greg, don’t you think?” smiles Greg, resting his hip against the counter.

Mycroft seems restless, unsure where to stand. He takes the milk from the fridge and sets it on the counter; goes to put his hands in his pockets, then stops himself.

“So you’re just getting back into it, then?” asks Greg.

“Other than a few idle sketches –” Mycroft gestures slightly. “It has been years.”

_Must be serious enough about it to rent this place, though._ Greg smiles. “Anything made you take it back up again now?”

Mycroft glances up at him; then away. “Curiosity, I suspect,” he says, at last.

_And there’s a lot more there than you’re saying,_ thinks Greg. _But that’s fair enough. We hardly know each other, not really. Just years of Sherlock in common. Not much else._

“And –” Mycroft clears his throat slightly, as the kettle boils. “Is this something that you do – regularly?”

Greg laughs. Awkwardness tightens hotly in the pit of his stomach. “Oh my god, no,” he says, running a hand over his face. “God, this must look –” he sighs. “Used to. A lot. When I was younger.” He huffs amusement. “I was decent-looking then, in retrospect, although I’m not sure I knew it at the time. Friend of my mum’s ran drawing classes at the local community centre an’ she said I should try it – did it for years, in the end. Good money, for a young lad. Only really stopped when I joined the Force.”

Mycroft swallows. “I see.” He uses a teaspoon to take the teabags out, and pours milk into one mug; holds the carton over the other.

“Mm, please,” says Greg. “Plenty.” And then: “great, ta.”

Mycroft’s long, delicate fingers screw the cap back on the milk.

_Why’d I never realise he’d be an artist, before? I’ve looked at those bloody fingers enough, haven’t I?_

“So what has prompted your return to –” Mycroft stops short of the words ‘nude modelling’.

Greg takes his tea; blows on it. “Oh, I dunno. Prob’ly some sort of weird midlife crisis,” he says, with a wry grin. “Former glories, an’ all that.” He looks around. There’s a couch; three or four easels; stacks of canvases leaning against the walls. “Where d’you want me to sit? Light’s not great, with the rain. Prob’ly not got long before it goes.”

Mycroft surveys the room. “Perhaps if you sit on this side of the table. I shall sketch with my back to the window.”

“No problem.” Greg takes a chair with a tall back and arms; turns it a little so that he can put his socked feet up on the chair next to him. Arranges himself; gets comfortable, hand curving to the cup of tea in front of him. He makes a self-conscious attempt to rearrange his damp hair. “Sorry. Prob’ly a right mess,” he mutters.

Mycroft seats himself at the far corner of the table; clears the space; gathers pad and pencils in front of him. He takes a sip of tea; hesitates.

“You can start,” says Greg. “D’you want me to hold still? Or can I drink my tea?”

“Some minor movement is not a problem,” returns Mycroft. He takes up a pencil.

_He’s self-conscious,_ realises Greg, watching the downcast eyes, the slightly-bitten lip. _Can’t get out of his head._ “Why ‘John Grant’?” he asks, with a smile. “Didn’t know if I’d turn up to find the singer.”

Mycroft glances up, surprise written plainly in the slight flick of his eyebrow. “It is a common name, I am sure.”

_You still chose it for the singer though, didn’t you? You didn’t actually answer the question._ Greg’s been a copper long enough to recognise a half-answer like that. _Didn’t have you down as the type – classical only, I’d’ve said. Shows how much I know._

“His music’s great.” Greg sips his tea. Rain lashes against the glass. “Glad ’m’not back out there.”

“The weather is certainly inclement.” But there’s preoccupation in Mycroft’s voice, now, and when Greg glances out of the corner of his eye, he sees those long fingers, sketching fast.

Greg smiles privately to himself, and fixes his eyes back on the glass; loses himself in the raindrops and the distant waving of tree branches in the wind.

“’M’learning a couple of his songs on the guitar, actually,” he says, quietly, not expecting any answer. “No good at ’em yet, ’f’course. Talk about bein’ out of practice with hobbies. But ’m’trying to make myself do a bit before bed every night.” He takes a sip of tea; keeps his eyes fixed on the faded stone of the building opposite. “’S’the problem with jobs like ours, isn’t it? You get – absorbed. There’s always more – always enough to fill every waking hour.” He lapses into silence. It’s comfortable. He watches the rain.

He doesn’t know how much later it is that Mycroft says, “and you choose to give part of your free time to a stranger.”

Greg takes a breath; blows it out again. He’s not sure what to say. “Well, not a stranger, turns out,” he jokes, in the end.

Mycroft catches his eye, briefly. “No,” he says, amused.

Some time later, “you play guitar.”

Greg huffs a laugh. “Used to. God. Used to be alright at it. In a band, for a while, as a kid. We weren’t very good, but we played the local pubs and bars. Had fun.”

He doesn’t get an answer. He catches glimpses from the corner of his eye at what Mycroft is drawing; it’s upside-down, and it’s partial, but he can tell it’s _good. And he says he hasn’t drawn in ages. Of course he’d be amazing. He’s a Holmes, isn’t he?_

The hour passes quicker than Greg could have anticipated.

It’s only when Mycroft says, “I must not keep you any longer, De– _Greg,”_ that he looks up; checks his watch. It’s five past the hour.

“Oh,” he says, in surprise. The light’s nearly gone. “Was that – any use –?”

Mycroft glances down at the sketch he has done; somewhat reluctantly, he pushes it across the table towards Greg.

_Holy shit. It’s beautiful._ The eyes are the most striking; wide and full –

“I don’t really look that sad, do I?” asks Greg, with a half-laugh.

Mycroft’s expression closes. “Artistic license,” he says, with the twist of a smile he uses on Sherlock.

“No, I – Mycroft, it’s _amazing,”_ says Greg. “Seriously. I mean it. I love it. You’ve been – kind.”

“No,” says Mycroft, then presses his lips together. The grey, dusky light is heavy, silent. “Thank you. For your time.”

“No worries,” returns Greg, as lightly as he can manage. “And – I mean it. I don’t want paying. We couldn’t do what you were expecting, after all, an’ I had fun –”

“Oh – no – on no account,” says Mycroft, firmly. There’s a moment’s hesitation. “In fact I –” he clears his throat. “You are an interesting subject. Perhaps we could.” He doesn’t seem to know how to finish his sentence.

Greg grins. “You mean the ravages of time are bad enough you want to draw my face again?”

Mycroft gives him a look, then rolls his eyes. “Greg.”

“But didn’t you want to – er –”

Mycroft waves a hand. “It is not important. Any and all practice will be useful, at this stage.”

Greg smiles, warmth pooling in his chest. “Alright. Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.” He clears his throat. “So – this time next week? Or…I thought – don’t you need more light? Morning light, I mean? I’ve got time this weekend, if –”

Mycroft blinks. “I fear that my weekends are usually indistinguishable from the other working days.”

“Ah. Right, yeah. Makes sense. Same here, often. ’Ve been trying to be better about it though. Actually get to football on Saturday. Y’know.”

Mycroft doesn’t make eye contact, placing the two pencils he’d used carefully back into the set. “Sunday morning –” he says, quietly. “Might perhaps –”

“Well that’d work for me,” says Greg, happily. “What time? You’d rather early, I guess, for the light?”

“Eight?” asks Mycroft, tentatively.

Greg grins. “Yeah. But I reserve the right to hate you. An’ drink a lot of coffee.”

Mycroft gives a small, private smile. “I shall provide it.”

Greg stands up, and crosses to put his mug next to the kettle. “’S’a deal, then. You’ve still got my phone number?”

“Naturally.”

_Naturally, and God knows how you got it in the first place, but that’s what happens when you hang out with Sherlock Holmes._ “Then text me if anything changes, yeah?”

He picks up his shoes, and returns to the chair to put them on.

It’s as he’s pulling on his coat that Mycroft clears his throat.

“You could – if you –”

Greg turns to look at him.

“Yeah?”

“I should certainly not mind you bringing your guitar,” says Mycroft, not looking directly at him. “If you wish to use the time to practice.”

“Oh,” says Greg, surprised. Then, “yeah. Yeah I hadn’t thought of that but actually –” he smiles. “Right. So I’ll –” he gestures to the door, “– get going. See you at the weekend, yeah?”

“Until Sunday.”

Greg takes one last look at this new – _different_ – Mycroft, and closes the door gently behind himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg yawns as he bounds up the stairs to the studio, guitar case heavy on his back. _Too bloody early for a Sunday,_ he thinks, but he’s been looking forward to this, maybe a bit more than he’d care to admit.

All week – through cases, through mountains of paperwork, through football practice yesterday – there’d been that low flip of anticipation in his stomach, the happy skip of knowledge that _he wanted to draw me again_ –

The studio door stands ajar again, and Greg can already smell the coffee. He gives a cursory knock on the door, then pushes it further open and steps inside.

There’s a swoop of that altered recognition – _white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, open at the neck, and it looks like soft cotton._ The usual starched precision of Mycroft’s clothing has softened into – Greg has to stop himself staring when he realises that Mycroft is wearing slim-cut charcoal-grey jeans.

Quickly, Greg wrenches his eyes back to Mycroft’s. “Mornin’,” he smiles, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on a peg near the door. “Think it’s turning to autumn out there.”

Mycroft, long fingers resting lightly on the lid of the cafetière, turns to look out of the window. “Indeed,” he says quietly. “It was somewhat chilly on my walk over.”

Greg swings the guitar case off his back and rests it against the sofa. “You walked?” he asks, surprised.

Mycroft, eyes lowered to watch as he presses down the cafetière plunger, smiles slightly. “I do that, sometimes,” he says, with private amusement.

Greg grins, and goes to lean against the counter. “Yeah, sorry. Just never seen you – always got the car with you, an’ the goons.” He holds out a paper bag from a nearby bakery. “Got us some breakfast. Didn’t have time to eat before I left.”

Mycroft opens the top of the bag, and raises one eyebrow. “These look positively sinful.”

Greg snorts a laugh. “Yeah, well, I went to football yesterday, you walked here – we deserve it. You got any plates here?”

Without a word, Mycroft opens the cupboard next to him and passes a couple of small plates to Greg.

Greg takes them and the bag of pastries to the table, pausing to watch branches of the tree opposite shake in the wind. “Yeah, was freezing at footie yesterday. We all had to go for a coffee afterwards to warm up. Some of ’em wanted to go for a beer instead, but not the best look for a bunch of coppers at ten in the morning.”

“You take milk in your coffee?” asks Mycroft.

“Yeah, thanks,” smiles Greg, crossing back to him. “Just like my tea. Lots of milk, no sugar.” Mycroft passes him the cup of coffee, and Greg inhales the rich, delicious scent. “Smells amazing,” he says, gratefully. “Just what I need.”

Greg watches. Mycroft takes his coffee black, with two sweeteners.

As they settle at the table, Greg says, “you don’t live far from here, then, if you walked.”

“No,” Mycroft shakes his head. “Around a fifteen-minute walk.” There is reserve in his voice.

_He’s worried I’m going to comment on how much his flat must cost, living around here._ Greg nods, and picks up the bag of pastries; holds it out. “There’s almond croissants, and one of those apricot custardy things. Only got one because they’re always too sweet for me to finish. Oh – god – you’re not allergic to nuts or anything are you?”

Mycroft shakes his head, quickly. “No. And I must admit to a secret fondness for almond croissants.”

Greg grins. “Good guess, then. Go ahead.”

Delicately, Mycroft picks out a croissant. “They are quite enormous,” he says, placing it on his plate.

“Not that big,” laughs Greg. “Jesus, Mycroft. Prob’ly a good thing I’m not getting my kit off. Few too many of these under my belt in the last few years.”

Mycroft takes a sip of coffee, and says nothing.

“So’ve you had a good week?” asks Greg. “Not seen you.”

“My brother has caught a cold from Rosamund,” says Mycroft, breaking off one of the points of his croissant. “While more annoying than usual by text, he seems to have decided to remain indoors.”

“Oh, that’s why he never turned up to my B&E on Thursday,” snorts Greg. “Ah well, he’d just’ve had a go at me in the end. Security guard confessed almost straight away.”

Mycroft licks the pad of his index finger and daintily picks up a shard of flaked almond. Greg tries not to stare at those fingers, or that tongue.

“Mmm,” sighs Greg, swallowing another bite of croissant. “Almond croissants always make me think of Dinan. We – me’n –” he swallows, and takes a sip of coffee. “We went there on holiday, god, years ago now. Didn’t realise the flat we rented had about six Catholic churches all round it. Bells used to wake me up stupidly early, so I’d go’n get us croissants – got almond, once, ’cause they’d run out of normal. Coffee and croissants on the balcony in the sunshine, in Brittany. ’Mazing.”

Mycroft seems to hesitate before answering. “I believe I first tried them in Normandy,” he says, after a moment. “Our parents had –” he hesitates again. “We used to stay there for several weeks, during the summer holiday.”

_Owned a French holiday home, then._ It doesn’t surprise Greg; Mycroft’s reticence in talking about it does. _Doesn’t want to look like he’s showing off, maybe?_

“Was that in a town, then, or –”

Mycroft glances up, and away. “Outside a small village. A – a farm. The farmer’s wife would send me into the village early, for croissants, and occasionally other things from the market. I – cycled. Sherlock was too small, but he enjoyed the pastries with pear in – I have forgotten the name. They kept bees on the farm. He was fascinated.” Mycroft frowns slightly, and bites his lip, as though regretting having said so much.

“An’ your parents –” Greg leaves the sentence hanging. He’s always wondered about them: so strangely absent, when Sherlock was…not doing so well.

“They – came and went,” says Mycroft, looking down into his coffee. “They had – a number of friends in the region.”

_Right. So they left you two to your own devices. Seems par for the course._ “Sounds idyllic,” says Greg, cheerfully.

Mycroft gives him a shrewd, grateful glance. “Quite.” He crumbles some more of the croissant.

“So’s there anything you want to try today?” asks Greg. “Drawing-wise, I mean? Poses and stuff?”

“I was glad to see that you had brought your guitar,” returns Mycroft. “Perhaps you could –”

“Yeah, sure,” smiles Greg. “But we can do some more formal stuff if you want to.”

Mycroft nods, gravely. “Thank you.”

“D’you paint as well?” asks Greg, finishing his croissant.

“Yes – well.” Mycroft gives a wry half-smile. “I used to.”

“An’ are you planning to – y’know – start again?”

“I hope so.” Mycroft turns to look out of the window. “Eventually.”

Greg looks at Mycroft’s plate. He’s eaten less than half of the croissant. “So – d’you want to get started? Or –”

“Yes.” For a moment, Mycroft is the clipped, controlled version of himself that Greg is used to. “Do you wish to take the sofa? Or would you prefer another chair?”

“Sofa’s good.” Greg stands up, then hesitates. “I c’n – wash up?”

Mycroft makes a quick, sweeping flick with his long fingers. “I shall do that once our time is over.”

Greg resists the urge to look at his watch, but his stomach clenches with the thought. _Wonder if he’ll want to do this again?_

He crosses to the sofa, and without turning round to look at Mycroft, slips off his jumper. He’d put on the navy long-sleeved t-shirt underneath, the one that clings to his chest and cuts slim to his waist. _If he’s not getting the life model he wanted, he can at least get some idea of what shape I am._ He drops his jumper across the arm of the sofa, and bends to unzip the guitar case.

Greg takes a seat on the sofa, slips the strap over his shoulder and starts to tweak the tuning. “Tell me where to move to,” he says, without looking up.

Quietly, Mycroft places a chair a few metres away. “I shall begin with a few informal sketches,” he says, calmly. “If you could turn a little more towards the window –”

“No worries.” Greg shifts slightly, then pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket. He browses through the tabs for the song he’s learning; he’s mostly got it memorised now, but he still likes to check over it. He closes his eyes and tries the first bar; he’s not sure why, but his heart’s thumping with nerves. _Not as if I didn’t used to play in front of packed pubs. Not the friendliest of crowds, either, half the time._ “Sorry – d’you mind if I just put a song on for a minute?” he asks, glancing up. “Just need to – y’know.”

“Please.” Mycroft catches his eye for a moment, then returns to his sketch.

Greg browses to YouTube and turns the volume on his phone down. The opening bars of _It’s Easier_ emerge from the speakers, small and tinny, but strangely loud in the peaceful space. Greg closes his eyes and listens.

He has it, after a minute; but he lets the song play through and end. At home he’d sing, to keep the rhythm. _No way I’m doing that here._ He closes the app on his phone.

He can only play all the way through the song slowly, falteringly; but the opening’s got pretty good. He plays that, then starts to work on the next section, a few bars at a time, building up speed and accuracy, sometimes checking the tabs again. He loses time, repeating the lyrics to himself inside his head.

_And it’s easier for me to believe that you are lying to me / When you say you love me and when you say you need me_ –

After a while, he starts to lose accuracy, and realises he’s tired; not concentrating properly. He doesn’t get long to practice at home, usually, and he tends to do it in short bursts. Without looking up, he rests his palm across the strings. “I could use a break and a stretch. No rush, just lettin’ you know.”

After a few moments, Mycroft nods. Greg sees it in his peripheral vision. “A convenient time for me.”

Greg lays his guitar on the sofa next to him and stands, stretching up; one of his hands caresses the back of his neck and runs through his hair, while the other reaches high. He yawns, and groans, and it’s only through chance he catches the small noise that Mycroft makes – a quick intake of breath. Greg looks over at him, letting his arms fall.

Quickly, Mycroft glances away; looks at his watch. “Thank you for –”

“Hang on,” says Greg, not moving his feet. “You liked the position, didn’t you?”

Mycroft blinks, not looking up. After a long moment, he says, “it was – expressive.”

“D’you want to get a sketch?”

Mycroft hesitates. “Oh – no – it is nearly –”

Greg smiles. “’S’alright, Mycroft. I don’t mind. Do it.” He reaches up again. “Was it – my left hand was on my neck, right? An’ this one –”

Mycroft stands, and takes a half-step towards him; stops.

“’S’alright,” repeats Greg. “Go on.”

There is a long, quiet moment when Mycroft stops behind him. Greg’s holding his breath; he can’t hear Mycroft breathing either. And then – Mycroft’s fingers touch his, tentatively; they are cold, and Greg jumps slightly.

“My apologies. I am cold-blooded, and it may be the time of year to consider turning on the heating.”

“Cold hands, warm heart,” says Greg, automatically, then regrets it. He hears a wry huff of amusement from behind him.

“I am not sure my colleagues, or my brother, would attest to the expression’s accuracy, in my case.”

Slowly, touching Greg as little as possible, Mycroft directs his left hand up into his hair. Greg thinks about the movement he’d made before; he’d pulled a little –

Mycroft’s fingers stroke with the briefest pressure across the back of Greg’s hand. “Yes.”

“An’ my right –”

Briefly, Mycroft touches Greg’s right elbow, drawing his arm just slightly further away from his face. “Your hand was tipped back a little more –”

Greg corrects it, and the next touch he feels is the slight brush of – _perhaps the pad of his thumb?_ – in the centre of his back, across his spine.

“Your back – a little more –”

Greg arches his back slightly, into a stretch.

“Yes. Yes. I shall attempt to be –” Mycroft does not finish his sentence, and Greg watches him cross to an easel in the corner, set up with paper.

“No rush, Mycroft. Honestly.”

He holds the position, the old familiar ache of remaining so still, in such an unnatural pose, beginning to run through him. After fifteen minutes, Mycroft takes one last, long look at him, then steps back from the easel. “We are well over time. That will do. I shall of course –”

“Take photos,” says Greg, calmly, not moving. “You’ve got a phone with you, right? Take some pose photos, an’ we can carry on next time, if you want to.” He grins. “Last time I did this, the teacher used to take photos, but with a Polaroid. Jesus, I’m old.”

Mycroft gives a slightly startled huff of laughter, and takes his phone from his pocket. “If you are –”

“No worries.”

Mycroft takes photos from every angle, though mostly from his position at the easel. “Thank you,” he says, at last. There’s a slightly awkward pause.

“So –” says Greg, sighing with relief as he relaxes out of the pose. “D’you want to…”

“Yes,” returns Mycroft, quickly. “It seems an imposition – at the weekend –”

“Early on Sundays works for me,” says Greg. “If that’s –”

“Yes.” Mycroft looks at the floor. “I shall of course recompense you for the additional time –”

_“Please_ don’t,” says Greg, smiling. “Honestly. It’s no bother, Mycroft. I don’t need – paying, anyway – ’s’interesting, you know?”

Mycroft glances away, out of the window. “Nevertheless.”

“D’you mind if I –?” Greg gestures at the easel. “I’d love to see. No worries if not though,” he adds, quickly.

Slowly, Mycroft steps away from the easel. His lips are pressed tightly together. “Please.”

Greg walks to the easel, and scans the sketch. “Christ, Mycroft,” he says. “This was fifteen minutes, right?”

Mycroft nods, not looking up.

“You know that’s brilliant, right?” Greg watches Mycroft’s lips twist, attempting to suppress pleasure; watches him blink disbelievingly. “I mean, pretty sure you’ve made me thinner than I actually am, but that’s alright, you c’n keep doing that.” He grins as Mycroft finally allows himself a smile. “Seriously, though. The light an’ shadow – ’s’brilliant. You’ve obviously got real talent. Fifteen minutes. Incredible.”

Mycroft does not make eye contact. He steps away to the table, and begins to collect the coffee cups and plates. “Thank you,” he says, quietly.

Greg takes one more glance at the sketch, and crosses to the sofa; pulls his jumper on, and starts to pack away his guitar. “So – same time next week?” he asks, nonchalantly.

“Certainly.”

Taking his jacket from the peg, Greg says, “let me know if you want me to prepare anything. Wear the same clothes, I s’pose?”

“If you could.”

“So – I…hope you have a good week,” adds Greg, settling his guitar case on his back, arranging the strap across his shoulder. “If I don’t see you, I mean.”

“Let us hope that Sherlock remains cold-ridden.”

Greg laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, I s’pose so.” He waves, awkwardly. “I’ll – yeah. See you.”

“Until next Sunday – Greg,” adds Mycroft, after a brief moment of hesitation.

_I never asked to see the guitar sketches,_ remembers Greg, as he walks down the stairs.


	3. Chapter 3

“G’morning,” says Greg, cheerfully, hanging up his coat. “Woke up really early this morning, an’ I’ve already had a run, so I’ll warn you now, I’m prob’ly in an annoyingly good mood.”

Mycroft smiles, guardedly. The kettle is still boiling. “You are indeed a few minutes early.”

Greg puts the striped plastic bag down on the side, and unpacks a paper bakery bag from inside it. “Hope you don’t mind?” he asks, easily.

“Not at all.”

“Got some almond croissants again, but I was going past the grocer’s an’ they had these peaches –” Greg takes one out of the bag and smells the soft, downy skin. He smiles. “You like ’em?”

“Delicious, I am sure.” Mycroft takes out the two plates, passing them to Greg, then busies himself with the cafetière.

Greg washes the peaches under the cold tap.

After a few moments Mycroft clears his throat. “And have you had a pleasant week?” he asks, blandly.

He’s employing the polished tones of the politician; but Greg can recognise social awkwardness when he hears it. He’s touched that Mycroft asked.

“Yeah,” he says, looking up to smile at Mycroft as he puts the plates on the table. “’S’been alright, I s'pose. Just busy. Not much for Sherlock – jus’ routine stuff. Got this big interdepartmental review thing coming up, an’ the Super’s gone into overdrive about it. Cracking down on us to get all our paperwork in order before then, so we’re drowning in it.” He shrugs, and gives Mycroft a rather guilty grin. “Means I actually have to concentrate on the pen-pushing for a bit, instead of running off out after cases.” He holds out a hand. “’V’you got a knife for these peaches?”

Mycroft passes him a chopping knife, and he sets it on the table next to the plates.

“Still. ’S’been good for makin’ me actually exercise. By the time I’ve got home most nights this week I’ve just wanted to do _something_ that wasn’t bloody sitting down.” He rubs his shoulder. “Mind you, football was pretty rough yesterday mornin’. Everyone bored an’ ready to throw ’emselves on the grass. How ’bout you? Good week?”

Mycroft finishes pressing down the plunger in the cafetière. He licks his lips, as though deciding what to say. “An impromptu trip to Brussels,” he says, at last. “And too little sleep.”

Greg grimaces sympathetically, accepting a cup of perfectly-made coffee – _just the right amount of milk._ “Ugh. When did you get back?”

“Yesterday evening.”

“Oh, no – you didn’t have to – if you’re knackered, we can –”

Mycroft turns and walks to the table; takes his accustomed seat, back to the window. “I believe I have been looking forward to drawing in the same way that you have found solace in running,” he says quietly.

_Solace. Not the word I’d’ve_ – Greg looks at Mycroft, taking in the dark shadows under his eyes, the tight lines of his mouth. _Christ. Looks like it’s been some week._

Greg nods. “Yeah, I get it. Let’s eat quickly an’ we can get on with it.” He opens the paper bag, then passes Mycroft a plate; picks up a peach and cuts it in half, levering out the stone. “Mm?” he asks, holding the fruit out, looking up to catch Mycroft’s eye.

“Thank you.” Mycroft takes the peach halves, fingers cool.

“Cold hands again.” Greg smiles gently, starting to cut another peach. “You got heating in here?”

Mycroft gives a quick nod. “Yes. I confess to a certain stubbornness about turning it on in the first days of September, however.”

Greg laughs. “Ha. I know what you mean. Late October’s just about respectable, but tell that to British summer.” He bites into the half-peach he’s holding. “Mmm. Oh, yes. I thought they’d be good.”

Greg takes an almond croissant, and pushes the bag towards Mycroft.

With a rather guilty glance at Greg, Mycroft takes the other pastry, placing it carefully on his plate. “Peach and almond –” suddenly, he looks as though he’d rather he hadn’t spoken. Delicately, he picks a flaked almond from the top of the croissant.

“Mm?” asks Greg. He looks up at Mycroft, interested.

Mycroft half-shakes his head. “Nothing – a memory.”

“Yeah?”

Mycroft keeps his eyes fixed on his plate. “The farm. Peach and almond crêpes, with vanilla ice cream. Sherlock would cover it all in honey, too, but I could never understand…” he picks up a slice of peach and eats it, slowly, not making eye contact.

“You speak French,” says Greg.

Mycroft nods, but still doesn’t look up.

“D’you enjoy cooking?” asks Greg. He drinks some coffee, relishing the warmth of the mug in his palm.

Mycroft’s gaze flicks to his for a moment, then away. “Yes,” he says quietly. “But I rarely get time.”

“Crêpe recipe sounds amazing, if you’ve got it,” returns Greg easily. The almond croissant is delicious. He tucks his feet up on the chair next to him, getting comfortable.

_Mycroft seems so – I don’t know. Something, today. Guarded? Wary? Must be tired after this week, but_ – Greg wonders if he’s managed to do, or say, something to upset the easy balance between them.

Mycroft’s only picking at the croissant, but he’s finished the peach. His sketchbook and pencils lie on the corner of the table.

Greg leans over, picks them up, and passes them to Mycroft. Then he pushes his own empty plate aside and takes a peach out of the bag. He settles it in his right palm, the back of his hand against the table. He cradles his coffee mug in his left hand.

Mycroft raises one eyebrow at him.

Greg grins. “Seven-minute sketch,” he says. “Well –” he makes a show of looking at his watch, “– six and a half minutes, now.”

Mycroft presses his lips together, but flips open the sketchbook and takes out a pencil all the same.

_Challenge a Holmes to anything…_ thinks Greg. He tries not to let his sense of triumph show on his face. _Too many years of dealing with Sherlock._

There are droplets of water on the downy skin of the peach. Greg keeps his fingers relaxed and drinks his coffee, staring blankly out of the window. In the class, all those years ago, he’d been used to sitting still for hours while a whole roomful of people concentrated on drawing just his foot, or his hand, or the way his hair curled, thick and dark, over his ear. _Ha. I did have curls, then. Christ. Bit of a difference nowadays._

_Back then_ – before he’d ever even met Zoe. Finished his O-levels, unsure what to do with his life; gigging in pubs, drinking with his mates, working for cash.

He remembers the first time he’d realised a man was flirting with him, too – then tries to keep the smile off his face. _Prim in your old age, aren’t you Greg? ‘Flirting’. Propositioning, more like. Not much subtlety to it, as I recall._ It’s vivid still: the visceral shock of it, the moment of mental readjustment, the spine-chilling, adrenaline-pumping realisation that he _wanted to_ –

“It has, so far, been eight minutes and thirty-five seconds,” says Mycroft, and his voice may be blankly polite, but when Greg looks up and grins, there’s a slight answering twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry. Miles away.” _Just a few miles. Wonder what happened to all those pubs and clubs. Closed down fifteen years ago, probably._

_Or more._

“You seemed engrossed in a memory.” Mycroft adds a few extra touches to his sketch as he speaks, eyes sharp.

“You mind-reading like Sherlock?” Greg smiles.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Hardly. You remembered something which caused you to display expressions suggesting, in turn, wistfulness, apprehension, fondness, amusement and –” Mycroft hesitates, “– perhaps shock or surprise, mingled with nostalgia. I simply lack the contextual clues and knowledge of your character which allow Sherlock to guess, with a higher level of accuracy, the thoughts which might feasibly preoccupy you.”

“He says he never guesses.”

“And I imagine your years of experience have taught you that that is mere grandstanding on his part.”

_I wonder what he’d say,_ thinks Greg. _If I told him I was thinking about the first night I ever spent with a man._

_Not the best I ever had, to be honest,_ his brain adds. _It was alright, but he wasn’t overly bothered about me, compared to him. Still, he did proposition me straight out, so what was I expecting, really?_

_Others were better. Far better._

“That one I humour him with,” says Greg, indulgently.

Mycroft sets down his pencil in the centre of the sketchbook, and makes to get up. “More coffee – Greg?” he asks.

“Mm, please.” Greg passes over his mug, and puts the peach back in the bag. “So d'you want to carry on with the stretch drawing you started last week? Or work on something new?”

Pouring milk into Greg’s coffee, Mycroft seems to hesitate. After a moment, he says, “in fact –”

“Ta,” murmurs Greg, accepting the mug.

Mycroft presses his lips together, then straightens his shoulders slightly. He’s wearing a soft-looking navy jumper – _must be cashmere,_ thinks Greg privately – and light slacks.

“In the process of taking the photographs, last week,” says Mycroft, voice once again calm and blank, “I noticed – perhaps something new –”

Greg takes a gulp of coffee and stands up, groaning slightly at the ache from yesterday’s football and this morning’s run. “Great. No problem. Just tell me where.”

As Mycroft places his cup of coffee on the table, Greg peels off his jumper and rolls up the sleeves of his t-shirt – the same one he’d worn last week.

Mycroft crosses to the sofa, standing next to it. “Perhaps –” he seems reluctant to elaborate.

_What’s he going to ask for?_ Greg tries not to either grin, or blush. “Show me, maybe?” he says, easily.

There’s a long, quiet moment, and then Mycroft kneels on the sofa, facing its back, elbows resting on the back cushions. His shoulders are bunched, and Greg can imagine – beneath the fabric of his jumper, his muscles must be knotted, his shoulderblades drawn together. _Bet he’s pale as hell under those clothes._

_Don’t_ – don’t – _fucking think about that. Christ._

“An’ my head?” he asks, calmly. “D'you want me to turn it so you can see my face? Or –”

“Like this, perhaps?” Mycroft places his forehead on his right arm. Most of his face is hidden, but there are some interesting angles and shadows.

_He’s really thought about this._ Greg’s skin feels sensitive, somehow. He feels hyper-aware of every part of his body.

“Shall I –?” he asks, gesturing to the sofa. “You c’n help me get it right.”

Mycroft stands up, graceful as ever.

_I wonder if he ever stumbles. If he’s ever drunk, or tired, and doesn’t manage to move with that catlike poise. Sherlock has it too. Maybe they teach it at boarding school._

Greg kneels on the sofa; he realises immediately that to make the pose work, he needs to spread his knees, get closer to the back cushions. He tucks his right foot into the arch of his left, leans both elbows on the back of the sofa, and tips his head to rest on his right forearm.

“Hm – hang on –” he murmurs. “Did you want –” he bunches his shoulders, but it’s awkward at this angle. “If I push my elbow out more,” he says, trying it, “then –” he arches his spine slightly, drawing his shoulderblades together. “Does that work?” He tips his head on his arm to look up at Mycroft, an awkward angle.

Mycroft’s expression blanks itself quickly, but his eyes had been bright with enthusiasm. “You have an instinctive understanding of composition,” he says, and it’s so blandly said that for a moment Greg doesn’t realise it’s a compliment.

When he does, warmth spreads in his chest. Shrugging, he allows himself out of the pose for a moment, and turns to look up at Mycroft without having to twist his neck. “Anything you want to change about it?”

Mycroft gives a terse shake of the head. “No. It will be an interesting challenge.” He steps away to position his easel.

Greg looks down and realises that he’s still wearing his socks. _It’ll look much better without those._ He stands, and rolls them off; crosses to drop them next to his shoes. As he walks back to the sofa, he sees Mycroft kneeling in the pose again in his mind’s eye, and figures out what the picture _should_ be. What Mycroft wanted, but hasn’t asked for.

_Shit. Am I about to make things really uncomfortable?_

_But – Christ. It’s obvious what this pose is designed to do._

He clears his throat. “Um – if – I mean, the point of this pose is the shoulders, right? So – I’m happy to take my top off, if you want. I’m – it’s fine, I mean.” His voice is as casual as he can make it. “Keep drawin’ me thinner than I am, though,” he adds, jokily. “Help an old man’s confidence.”

He glances up, but Mycroft’s turned away, fiddling with the back of his easel.

“Thank you,” he says, eventually, disappearing behind the easel. “That will certainly increase the artistic challenge.”

“What, slimming me down?” jokes Greg, kneeling in position on the sofa.

“Nonsense, Detective Inspector,” says Mycroft quietly. He’s turned away again, searching in a cupboard, and Greg realises: _he’s not looking while I take my top off. As if he’s not going to be staring at my back for the next hour._

His stomach twists itself into knots, and his heart pounds. He draws off his t-shirt with shaking fingers, drops it over the back of the sofa, and finds the pose. Once his head is resting on his right arm, he closes his eyes. “This alright? Anything I need to change?”

“Not at all.” Mycroft’s voice is quiet; and Greg’s heart jolts, his skin tingling with the knowledge that _he’s watching me. Looking at me._

_Yeah, as an artist. What the fuck is wrong with you?_

_Other than the fact you’ve not got naked in front of anyone for probably a year, and Christ that needs to change, doesn’t it?_

He’s always just assumed Mycroft is gay, without questioning it; and when he has tried to work out why, it’s entirely intangible, and basically boils down to _the suits, the ties, the pocket squares._ Which, of course, he _knows,_ don’t actually mean a bloody thing.

From the odd remark John’s made at the pub, the whole question’s academic anyway. Seems like Mycroft makes Sherlock look like the Whore of Babylon.

It’s chilly in the studio. He feels goosebumps form on his arms, and stops himself from shivering. Instead he thinks about modelling when he was younger. _Find the mindset. Find that place in your head you used to go: the quiet, peaceful place where thoughts come and go, but never exactly settle._

He’d had a lot less to think about, back then, of course; just teenage stuff. _Well, and Dad. But I was so angry, I think I avoided it. Tried to._

He concentrates on his breathing, long and slow.

“Do you draw?” asks Mycroft, after several minutes. He sounds calm; slightly distant.

“Nah. Had a mate who was a cartoonist and he showed me how to do figures in that kind of style, but not really. Why?”

_Jesus. Tom. Haven’t thought about him in, what? Twenty years?_ They’d ended up in bed after Tom drew filthy art of them together. _Shame the art was better than the_ –

“I thought perhaps you had received training.”

Greg smiles. “Modelling’s a skill too,” he says. “People think it’s just sittin’ there, but it’s not. I remember this one class where they’d got some girl in from the local school – ’bout my age, but stayin’ on for A levels. We had to do some poses together, an’ she wriggled about so much people complained. Threw the whole group off. She kept sighing and moaning on about having to sit in uncomfortable positions.” _She asked me out for a drink after the class, and I said no. You’ve got to be pretty bloody annoying to get a seventeen-year-old boy who already knows you look great naked to say no to a date._ “I read something once, about life modelling. They said it’s so difficult because you have to be as calm and unmoving as a statue, but as human as you are. It’s the flaws an’ imperfections artists want. Not just in your body, but in who you are. They want to draw what makes you real. But not if you keep wrigglin’,” he adds, feeling like he’s been pompous.

Mycroft doesn’t reply for a while, and Greg’s almost stopped expecting an answer when he asks, “why did you stop?”

Greg lets out a considering sigh. “Well – got busy with work, an’ then – y’know. Started wondering whether a constable ought to be gettin’ his kit off in front of the community –” he huffs a laugh. “I was a PC, an’ I knew if anyone from the station found out, I’d arrive in class to find the rest of the lads there, ready for a good laugh. Then I met Zoe, an’ we were married within a year. Not much to it, really.”

Again, Mycroft is quiet for a long time. “The art tutor must have been sorry to lose such an experienced model.”

“Ha. She and my mum were friends, so I used to get an earful off my mum about it regularly.”

It sounds as though Mycroft gives a huff of amusement in return.

For a while, Greg drifts in the quiet of the studio, outside the demands of time.

“I believe we can end there,” says Mycroft after a while, “thank you.”

“Cool. D'you need any photos?” murmurs Greg, trying to stop himself from yawning.

“That will not be necessary,” says Mycroft. He sounds more clipped, more businesslike than he has for the past hour. “I apologise. We are somewhat over time.”

Greg stirs, stretches, and looks at his watch. “Only ten minutes,” he says, stretching his arms behind him. His legs are thoroughly cramped, and when he stands up he has to sit down again quickly. “Pins and needles,” he laughs, wincing.

After a minute, he can stand and find his t-shirt; he pulls on his jumper, too, welcoming the extra warmth.

Once he’s dressed, Mycroft emerges from behind the easel, and Greg understands that he’s again been studiously not watching – _like I’m not decent if he’s not drawing me._

“You got a busy week?” he asks, sitting on the sofa to put his socks and shoes back on.

“Nothing unusual,” says Mycroft, clearing the plates and coffee mugs into the sink. “I hope.”

“Yeah. Hopefully you don’t get any more surprise trips,” says Greg, amiably.

He finishes lacing up his shoes, and stands up.

“And – you?” asks Mycroft.

“Well, all this paperwork should be over by Thursday – that’s when the review is. I’ve got to do a presentation ’bout my team, but it’ll be fine. Then –” he groans, remembering something. “Christ. That night –” he pulls on his jacket and runs a hand over his face, through his hair. “My brother-in-law – we’re mates an’ I wouldn’t normally, but he _swears_ – he’s got this friend he says’d be perfect for me, so…meant to be going out for dinner with her.” He sighs. “Can’t say I’ve ever found a blind date fun before, but maybe this’ll be the exception that proves the rule.”

The mugs clink slightly together as Mycroft runs them under the hot tap.

“Sorry, did you want any help with that?” asks Greg.

“No, please do not trouble.”

There’s a moment of silence. “C’n I…” asks Greg, looking at the back of the easel. He expects Mycroft to turn round, to watch where he’s looking; but he doesn’t.

“Naturally.” Mycroft’s voice is smoothly blank.

Greg steps around the easel, and catches his breath. The lines flow, somehow imprecise and perfectly-placed at the same time. The play of light and shadow in the knotted, solid-looking muscle at the shoulders is breathtaking, and _no way I look like that_ –

Most striking is the section of the face that can be seen – carefully-drawn, delicate, and Greg can’t help but focus on the eyelid immediately. It’s darker than the rest of the face, smudged, clearly smoothed with a finger to give a languid, dusky effect. It seizes at his heart, somehow, and he can’t quite understand why.

“’S’beautiful,” he says, and he’s embarrassed when his voice comes out as a dry croak. He clears his throat. “I – I mean. You’ve _drawn_ it beautifully.”

Mycroft picks up the bag of peaches from the table, and holds them out. “These are –”

_He finished the peach, but not the croissant._ “Oh, no,” says Greg. “I’m off to the supermarket in a bit anyway, so.” He takes one last look at the easel, and moves towards the door, pushing his hands into his jeans pockets. “Thanks. I’ll – see you later. Next week, I guess.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft gives him a quick half-smile, and turns to pick up the drying-up towel.

Greg’s chest is tight as he walks down the stairs. He feels thoroughly – oddly – _seen._


	4. Chapter 4

**[07:32] Morning! TFL said the Met Line was going to be messed up today so I started off early and of course it was fine. In Starbucks getting a coffee. Want any fancy coffee when I come up? It’s autumn so they’ve got pumpkin spice lattes… :P  G**

**[07:35] I have Googled the ‘pumpkin spice latte’ and it sounds tooth-rottingly revolting. No thank you. MH**

Greg grins. _Only Mycroft Holmes could get ‘tooth-rottingly revolting’ into a text message._

**[07:36] Afraid you’ve missed your chance at the unicorn frappuccino, Mycroft. Not seasonal. G**

**[07:37] Good grief. MH**

**[07:38] Well if you’re sure…see you in a bit :)  G**

Greg puts his phone down and stares out of the window. He’s just down the street from the studio. It’s a grey morning, not actually raining, but with a promise of it in the chilly air. He sips his flat white and rubs idly at the bruise on his upper arm – Dawson had got a bit over-enthusiastic during football yesterday.

He feels good, though. He’s managed to keep up the running this week, and woke up early this morning to go again. He’d realised that his decision to take his top off for last week’s modelling session had definitely been related to how he’d felt after a week of exercise and better sleep, and he’s promised himself not to let that slip away again.

He’s also cut down on the takeaways, cooking himself quick dinners when he got home from work. Granted, mostly just pasta and a quick sauce, but he put in vegetables and everything. _Yeah, well done Greg. How old are you? I mean, we’re really talking about the basics, here_ – he smiles slightly.

He’d not cooked for himself on Thursday, of course.

Helen had turned out to be a barrister; texting in advance, they’d planned a late dinner around both their working hours. They’d eaten in a pub near Somerset House, close to her chambers.

After the review day, his presentation, and a couple of hours picking up the threads of ongoing cases which he’d had to push down the ladder for a couple of weeks, Greg had decided to take the twenty-minute walk along the river instead of using the Tube. It was good to have time to think, to clear his brain.

It had felt weird, being on his way to a date. Weird, and not particularly exciting. Other than a few brief arranging texts, he’d never spoken to her; and it _could_ be fun, but it was more likely to be mostly amicable, and slightly awkward.

He’d texted Ed, his brother-in-law, on the way:

**– A barrister? Hope I haven’t met her in court. G**

**– Oh stop moaning. Thought you should meet someone who’d understand about the hours you work. Ed**

And – yeah. It had always been a problem, with him and Zoe; always the first thing every argument would zero in on. His absence. His distance. His obsession with his job. And he’d blamed himself, for years.

**– I’ll let you know how it goes. G**

**– Ugh, please don’t ;)  Ed**

Greg had rolled his eyes, and tried not to grin. Shrugged it off, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. _Seems unlikely._

_Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, though. At least it’d stop me having ridiculous thoughts when I’m taking my shirt off for Mycroft. For – the session. The modelling._

She was pretty, with blonde hair twisted into an elegant chignon. Ambitious, intelligent, and interesting, she read the news, and clearly loved her job. They’d talked about programmes they’d watched, and places they’d been. Places they’d like to go.

By a sort of common, unspoken consent, they’d avoided talk of past relationships. Greg’d guess she’s a few years younger than him, but still – there’s presumably at least a long-term partner in her past. _Always the worst part of dating. The relationship post-mortem._

And it’d been – fun. It really had. Amusing, interesting, smart company, over a decent meal, and he hadn’t been bothered at all when she’d said she needed to get home because she had an early start.

_Which is, I’ve got to admit, a tiny bit worrying._ Greg finishes his flat white and runs his hand through his hair.

She’d made it clear she’d like to meet again, and – yeah. It’s not like he’d be against it. _But_ – he sighs, staring blankly out into the grey street.

_But._

_I can see why Ed thought… she’s great. She is. But maybe we’re just – good on paper._

It just – hadn’t been there. That electricity; that vital, flowing current of _more, yes, you._ And God, he _misses_ it. Misses it so bloody much.

For a while, after Zoe, he’d thought it was gone forever. And then there’d been a date; and a one-night stand that he hadn’t really been sure about, but _fuck,_ it felt good to be wanted in a basic, uncomplicated way.

It was fun. It was easy. It didn’t last, or even repeat, and it didn’t need to.

_Maybe I’m just not that bothered any more. Getting older does that, I s'pose._

_Shame I spent so long with someone who_ –

He shakes his head slightly, and looks at his watch. _Time to get going._

He takes out his phone as he walks towards the bakery.

**[07:51] Still want an almond croissant? Could get you something else if you’d prefer? G**

**[07:52] I should greatly appreciate an almond croissant. MH**

**[07:53] You never finish them, so I wondered :) G**

**[07:55] The constant tension between desire and the fear of excess, Detective Inspector. MH**

**[07:56] If you mean you’re watching your weight…shut up, you skinny bastard. G**

Greg hands over the money for two almond croissants, with a quick smile at the sleepy-looking kid behind the counter.

**[07:57] Jesus, Mycroft. You’re giving me a complex now. What the fuck did you think when I took my top off last week?! Plenty of pies, takeaways and croissants round my soft middle. G**

**[07:59] I cannot claim to have noticed, Detective Inspector. MH**

Greg rolls his eyes, pushing the downstairs door closed behind him. He texts as he climbs the stairs.

**[08:00] Oh yeah, a Holmes not noticing? Seems likely. Eat the bloody croissant, Mycroft. You don’t need to worry. G**

**[08:00] And less of the ‘Detective Inspector’ bollocks. G**

Greg pushes the studio door open. He’s nervous, suddenly, to see Mycroft; chest tight with the knowledge that he’s just learned something more personal about the man than he ever has before.

_Well, except the art. And the holidays in France. The parents who come and go._

_Huh._

_S'pose I’ve – found out quite a lot about him really._

He hangs up his jacket, and pushes off his shoes. “Got you that croissant,” he says, with a gentle smile, putting the bag on the table. The plates are already there.

Mycroft is making coffee, back turned to Greg. He’s wearing dark jeans and a soft grey shirt. “You would still like coffee?” he asks, after a moment.

“Please. I only had a flat white, and they’re so bloody tiny. Don’t know why they can’t make them a proper size.” He takes his seat at the table. “So. Good week? No gadding off to Brussels?”

“Not this time.” Mycroft pours two mugs of coffee, and when he turns, his gaze does not quite meet Greg’s.

“Ta,” says Greg, accepting one mug. _I wonder if there’s anything he can actually tell me about his week. Doubt it, the stuff he deals with._ “Latest evening you got home this week?” he asks, grinning.

Mycroft’s eyebrow rises in surprise. Still, he hardly misses a beat. His tone is wry as he says, “four in the morning.”

Greg grimaces. “Ouch. Well, beat me hands down this week. My latest was ten, on Friday. Slacker, eh?”

“Indeed. A shamefully poor effort.”

Greg laughs, and takes a croissant from the bag. “Not a fair contest though. Remember I was on paperwork most of the time.”

“Ah yes. And how was – Thursday?”

“Yeah, alright. Presentation went fine. Listened to a load of other presentations, all just as boring as mine. An’ now we’ve all got to actually catch up on our active cases.”

Mycroft nods, looking down into his coffee. Both his hands are wrapped around the warm mug. There’s a delicate kind of _expectation_ to his silence. He bites his bottom lip, and his eyebrows draw together momentarily into a wince of indecision.

Greg watches the expression with a stab of confused interest.

“An’ – Thursday night –” he says, slowly.

Mycroft’s grey eyes snap up, meet his for the shortest of moments, then flick immediately away again.

Greg sighs, and takes a bite of croissant. “It was – good. Fun. I don’t know if we’ll do it again. She was really nice, I just –” he shrugs. “Y’know when you’re just not sure if there’s that… ‘chemistry’,” he says, with heavy inverted commas.

Mycroft’s face is tipped down, eyes lowered, staring fixedly at the table. Greg watches him blink several times.

“I am not the person to appeal to in such matters,” he says, and his voice is smoothly, impassively diplomatic.

Greg takes a gulp of coffee and eats another bit of croissant. He watches Mycroft; watches the way those long, elegant fingers tear off a small piece of pastry.

“Yeah?” asks Greg, casually.

Mycroft glances up, sharply. “Hardly my forte,” he says, with the sideways inflection that Greg has heard countless times, aimed at Sherlock.

“God, nor mine, nowadays,” says Greg, with a rueful chuckle. _‘Hardly my forte’? What exactly does he mean by that?_ “First date I’ve had in – Christ. Must be a year.” Something makes him add, “after the divorce – I don’t know. S'pose I needed some time. An’ then I just –” he shrugs. “Doesn’t stop my mates trying to set me up with people all the time, ’f’course.”

Mycroft gives a tight little smile. “I am sure.”

_Be nice to meet someone just – naturally. Without all the faff of dating. I mean – we could date – just not…the kind of date that feels like an interview._ Greg sighs. _I shouldn’t be wasting Mycroft’s time and money just chatting._ “So did you have a pose in mind for today?”

Mycroft breaks off another piece of croissant. _He’s eaten half of it already,_ thinks Greg, trying not to smile. _Good._

“I thought perhaps you might choose one,” says Mycroft guardedly, frowning slightly. “Your experience speaks for itself.”

Greg’s stomach twists with pleasure and surprise. He smiles. “Yeah? Yeah, alright.”

Mycroft catches his eye for a moment, and looks away again quickly.

Greg’s saved the softest, most marzipan-like section of the croissant until last. He finishes his cup of coffee, and looks over at the cafetière. “D'you want a top-up? ’M’going to get one.”

“No, thank you.” Mycroft gives him a quick smile, warm and genuine; and it’s so unexpected that Greg can’t help staring at him. He smiles, then grins in return, and remembers to turn away.

He concentrates on pouring himself coffee; adding milk. _An’ what pose should I do?_

There’s part of him that can’t help trying to think of poses which don’t involve folds of flesh at his stomach or displaying his wrinkles or sagging skin, but – he shakes the thought away. _Don’t be fucking stupid. It’s not about the way you look. It’s about him drawing, practicing. He’s not even looking at_ you, _not really; just the figure. The challenge. The detail, not the whole. You don’t actually matter, here._

By the time Greg turns back, Mycroft is just a couple of bites away from finishing his croissant. There’s a warm curl of satisfaction in Greg’s stomach; _he listened to me._ All the same, he’s got an idea that he shouldn’t draw attention to it. _Seems like he might be a bit anxious about his weight._

_Fuck knows why, but I’m pretty sure I’ve heard Sherlock make comments about cake before. Maybe there’s a bit of a history there._

“Best bit,” says Greg, picking up the last piece of his croissant.

“Indeed.” Mycroft takes his last bite too, and they share a conspiratorial glance of pleasure.

Greg licks the last crumbs of pastry and dusting of icing sugar from his fingertips, and Mycroft looks quickly away. “D'you have a loo here?” asks Greg. “Before we get started. Don’t want to disturb you.”

Mycroft nods to a door at the far end of the studio, and stands to collect the plates.

As Greg gets up, he checks his watch. “I don’t mind staying a bit,” he says. “We seem to’ve taken a while. ’M’not up to anything afterwards.”

“Please do not trouble –”

Greg smiles at him. “No trouble. That’s why I said. I look forward to it. To – this. It’s fun. Interesting.”

Mycroft does not reply, back turned to Greg, rinsing the plates under the tap.

When Greg returns from the loo, Mycroft is standing at the easel, setting up paper, laying out pencils. He flicks his eyes to Greg’s and indicates the bathroom. “A moment,” he murmurs.

While he’s gone, Greg pulls his jumper and t-shirt off over his head, dropping them on the sofa; peels off his socks and adds them to the pile. Taking a seat on the floor, he crosses his legs, knees bent, and lies back, arms behind his head. The angles of his knees and arms form a pleasing balance in this pose, and it’s a challenge to draw. _He’s good enough for it though. Definitely._

He can’t really see Mycroft, behind the easel; just his trousers and shoes.

“An interesting pose,” says Mycroft quietly, after a few minutes. “A challenge.”

“You’re easily good enough for it,” says Greg, blinking slowly up at the ceiling. “No trouble.”

“Your faith in me is touching,” says Mycroft drily. “Though perhaps misplaced.”

“Shut up, you.” Greg smiles. _Every one of your drawings so far has been bloody incredible._

“Charming.” Mycroft’s voice is sharply amused.

Greg laughs slightly, trying to control it. “Don’t make me move.”

“Certainly not.”

Greg grins, and doesn’t reply. He finds it quickly, this time: that blessed state of mind where he can drift, thoughts coming and going peacefully, not weighing too heavily.

_I’d never’ve done this again without the divorce._ It’s an odd thought, and one he tries to pull apart. _We were already broken before the last time, and I cut myself down to someone I didn’t recognise to try and get it right. I wasn’t being – me, and somewhere I knew that wasn’t right, so I put everything that_ was _me into work. Rebelled using that. Pushed her away like she rejected me._

He’s surprised to find that it doesn’t hurt.

Lying here, shirtless, on the chilly floor of an art studio in Kensington, the usual stab of blunt pain that thinking about Zoe brings just – doesn’t come.

_Actually, the floor might be chilly, but the room’s not as cold as I’d’ve expected. Guess he’s put the heating on._

The thought makes him want to smile, for no reason he can exactly understand.

“I should have projected a film onto the ceiling.” Mycroft’s voice is quiet, full of concentration.

Greg smiles and gives a little huff of laughter, aware of the way that it pulls at his stomach muscles. “Nah. ’S’nice to be quiet. Shuts my brain up, actually.”

The slight arch at the small of his back, the places his shoulders push against the floor, are now filled with the familiar ache of not moving for so long. He doesn’t stir.

“If you need a break, please do not hesitate to say so,” murmurs Mycroft, after a moment.

“’S’no bother, Mycroft. You mind-reading me again?”

“Only to the extent that your musings brought expressions suggesting caution, unhappiness of some kind – though not unmixed with hopefulness – followed by realisation, amusement and satisfaction.” Wryly, he adds, “of what possible ‘mind-reading’ use this list could be in further divining your actual thoughts escapes me.”

“You ought to be in that team – y'know, the one that reads micro-expressions to get the truth out of people.”

“Hardly.” After a moment, Mycroft adds, “I certainly hope that these sessions do not recall such interrogations.” He speaks lightly, with the same sardonically amused tone; but there’s truth behind it, all the same. A slight edge of concern.

And quite suddenly, Greg detects a very lonely person, behind Mycroft’s superior solitude. Someone who does not trust that his own actions conform to a standard, because he doesn’t have the experience to compare them with. And his chest _aches._

Greg smiles, warmly. “Only messing, Mycroft. An’ no, they don’t. Pretty different from bein’ around Sherlock, too, who’d just guess enough hurtful things to distract me an’ count on one of ’em sticking.”

There’s a tiny pause; Mycroft is clearly making an effort to sound detached when he says, “such is the charlatanism of magic tricks, I fear.” After a moment, he adds, “I have completed the pose sketch. I shall continue with it next week, if that suits you.”

“Have we had our time, though?” asks Greg, surprised. _It’s gone so quickly._

“Yes, and I took you at your word. We are around fifteen minutes over the original time.”

“Blimey. Goes fast.” Greg ignores the urge to stretch a moment longer. “Need photos?”

Mycroft hesitates, then says, “just one, from here by the easel.”

“No worries.”

When Mycroft murmurs that he’s done, Greg lets out a groan and slowly uncrosses his legs, stretching his arms above his head. He twists his hips from side to side, releasing the ache that has coalesced at the base of his spine. For a minute he just lies with his legs straight, letting his back and hips realign.

“Bloody hell, I’m old,” he laughs ruefully, as he starts to sit up. “I mean, y'know we still have fitness tests, an’ I always pass, but still. This feels different to when I was seventeen.”

Mycroft is busy behind the easel, not looking at Greg.

_Oh yeah, I’ve got my top off. Not decent._

_If he’s a bit tentative about conversation, then nudity – yeah, I s'pose I understand why he’s behaving like this._ Greg ignores the flutter of curious warmth low in his stomach. _Although, to be honest, he always seems so in control. Never assumed he’d be badly off for…_

“Maybe I should take up yoga,” says Greg jokily, kneeling next to the sofa to pull first his t-shirt then his jumper on. “Might help.” Moving up to sit on the sofa, he puts his socks back on too.

Slowly, he stands up, and steps over to the easel.

It’s just a sketch; the bare bones of a more detailed project. And yet every line is full of such sensuous fluidity – there in the curve of the bicep behind the head, the rise of the hipbones above the waistline of the trousers, the sketchy detail of the feet and the slight arch of the back –

_I’ll take my belt off next time, he hasn’t drawn it in and it ruins the way the denim lies against the stomach and hipbones, I can see it_ –

“Told you the pose’d be no trouble for you,” says Greg, turning to give Mycroft a warm grin. “Got it perfect first time. Maybe I _should_ take up yoga. Give you a pose that's an actual challenge.”

“You will not mind continuing with this next week?” asks Mycroft, flicking his gaze quickly away. He looks slightly unsure how to take the praise.

“’Course not.” Greg reaches out and touches Mycroft gently behind the elbow. “Lookin’ forward to it.”

After a moment, he steps away to the door, and pulls on his shoes, then his jacket. “Got anything exciting happening this week?”

“I hope not,” Mycroft returns, collecting the coffee cups from the table and making his way to the sink. “And you?” There’s an edge of caution to the way he speaks the question.

“Nah. Just picking up normal caseload again. Actually get to leave the office, hopefully. Should be fine.”

“I hope Sherlock is cooperative.”

Greg laughs. “I’ll see you if not.” He just about manages to quash the inflection that suggests that would be an upside, and frowns confusedly at himself. “So. I’ll – see you next Sunday then.”

“Yes. Until then – Greg.”

Greg gives a quick, awkward wave, and pulls the door to behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

**[05:17] Think I’ve won for this week, Mycroft. Just getting home. G**

**[05:23] It is only Wednesday. There is still time for me to catch up. MH**

**[05:24] Don’t you dare pull a two-nighter just to win. G**

**[05:25] Go to sleep, Detective Inspector. MH**

**[05:26] Yeah, for two hours. Then I’m back out. G**

**[05:27] Surely not. MH**

**[05:28] Sherlock’s still at it. There wasn’t a lot I could do until some of the paperwork’s cleared and I’m not thinking straight as it is. G**

**[05:29] A wise decision. I rely upon you to curb Sherlock’s excesses, not to enable them. MH**

**[05:30] I know :) Just getting into bed, thank god. G**

**[05:31] Enjoy your rest. MH**

*

**[10:53] Jesus, sorry for texting you so early Mycroft. My brain really wasn’t working. Hope I didn’t disturb your sleep. G**

**[10:55] I was just arriving at my desk when your first message arrived. MH**

**[10:56] You’re kidding. You work way too hard. G**

**[10:57] How can you bear getting up early on Sundays too? If that was me I’d be in bed until two in the afternoon. G**

**[10:59] It is natural to me. I prefer it. I am most clear-headed early in the day. MH**

**[11:00] That’s not the day! That’s night in disguise. So by eleven at night are you down to just normal human intelligence?? G**

**[11:02] Exponential reduction, I fear. This is why I could not ‘pull a two-nighter’. By the second day I should not be able to think at all. MH**

**[11:03] Yeah right! Don’t try and lull me into a false sense of security. I know I need to defend my title. G**

**[11:04] It might perhaps be better for the safety of London’s citizens if you slept. MH**

**[11:05] I could say the same thing to you. G**

**[11:06] You could, for all the good it would do. MH**

**[11:07] Ha! Hope you have a good week. See you on Sunday, looking forward to it :)  G**

**[11:11] I too. Until Sunday. MH**

*

It’s absolutely bucketing down, rain bouncing back from the road and pavement as Greg sprints from the Tube to the bakery, coat collar turned up. He’d considered not going for the croissants, but… _nah. It’s a tradition, now, isn’t it? I like it._

It’s warm inside the bakery, and it smells amazing. It’s a different cashier today, a middle-aged woman. She smiles as he pays for the croissants. “Hope you get those home dry,” she says, looking out at the rain.

“Me too,” he returns, with a grin. “Most important thing. See you next week.”

He holds the paper bag inside his coat, and legs it for the door of the studio building. There’s rain pouring into his eyes from his hair and he’s not watching the road next to him, but there’s the bright-red roar of a London bus, and then purely by instinct he shouts and turns away –

The wave of freezing rainwater hits him, soaking him from head to toe. He’s too shocked to make another sound. He can feel water soaking insidiously into his shoes, his socks, between his toes.

_Fucking hell._

He squelches up the stairs, and when he gets to the studio door, Mycroft is standing next to it with a towel.

“The London bus driver is a species apart,” says Mycroft. “I have turned the heating up. Please do use this.”

Greg takes the towel, and hands Mycroft the bag of croissants. “Think I managed to keep ’em dry,” he says, and starts to laugh.

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth twitch, and he turns his head to the side; but when he meets Greg’s eyes, he can’t help but give a huff of amusement. “I shall make the coffee. A hot drink will warm you.”

Greg pushes his shoes off just outside the studio door, then peels off his socks. He’s dripping on the mat. He shrugs off his sodden jacket and drops it next to everything else; glancing around at the empty stairs, he pushes his jeans down, too, and wraps the towel around his hips.

_I’ll deal with this stuff in a minute._

He pads to the bathroom, where he peels off his jumper and t-shirt. Not fancying the prospect of London street-water all over him as he eats, he washes his hands and face. It’s too horrible to consider putting his waterlogged tops back on, so he hangs them over the radiator. He’s still wearing his damp boxers under the towel, but he’s sure they’ll dry relatively quickly with his body heat.

_Oh well. He wanted a nude model. Nearly there, as it happens._

By the time he emerges, he’s shivering, skin cold and clammy. He’s about to head for the door to collect his clothes when he realises that Mycroft’s already laid his jeans and socks over a radiator; his coat hangs over the back of a chair in front of it. His shoes have been pushed underneath.

Mycroft glances at him, then indicates another small radiator next to the window. “Please,” he says. “Get warm. The coffee will be ready in a moment.” He turns his back to Greg, and peels off his soft turquoise jumper. His white shirt flattens itself against the curve of his back as he does so, and Greg follows the line with his gaze, glancing quickly away when Mycroft turns back around.

Mycroft holds out the jumper, a gentle quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Please,” he says again.

Greg hesitates, but he really is shivering with cold, and it’s too tempting. He slips the jumper on. It’s soft, still warm with Mycroft’s body heat.

A different kind of shiver whispers down his spine.

He leans against the radiator, soaking up warmth, and lets his head fall back against the wall. “Bloody hell,” he says, at last.

Mycroft gives a wry huff of amusement. “Indeed.” Moving around the table, he hands Greg a cup of steaming hot coffee, with exactly the right amount of milk. “This will help.”

Greg blows across the surface and takes a sip. “Oh, god, yeah, that’s good,” he mumbles. “Thanks so much, Mycroft.” He nods at the clothes on the radiator, and drops his eyes to the warm – _probably more expensive than anything I own_ – jumper he’s now wearing. _Cashmere, I bet._ “Left my t-shirt and jumper over the bathroom radiator.”

Mycroft lays out plates, putting an almond croissant on each one. “I regret that there is no shower,” he says, quietly. “It would be the fastest way to warm up. If you would prefer to get home, I can order you a car immediately.”

Greg waves the hand that’s not holding his coffee. “Seriously, Mycroft, no worries,” he says. “I’d rather not put those clothes back on for a bit. Anyway,” he adds, with a grin. “You wanted a nude model.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes slightly. “Not by any means necessary.” He smiles, and passes Greg a plate. “More coffee?”

“Please, if you don’t mind.” Greg takes a big bite of croissant. “Yep, ’s’definitely not soggy,” he chuckles. “Christ. I envy it.”

And part of his brain says: _he’s – looking after me._

_He seems so much more at ease in this situation than I’d’ve expected._

He looks out of the window. Rain still lashes against the glass; in the street below, buses and cars swoosh back and forth through the puddles.

_We must need to get started_. Greg thinks about checking the time; then realises he needs to see whether his phone’s okay in his coat pocket. “Damn –” he mutters, pushing himself away from the radiator.

Mycroft, bringing another cup of coffee, gives him a quizzical look. “Stay by the radiator. I can –”

“Jus’ my phone,” says Greg, taking the coffee gratefully. “In my –”

Mycroft turns back to the kitchen counter, where Greg’s phone sits on the drying-up cloth. “It does not appear to have been harmed,” he says, calmly, passing it to Greg.

Greg half-shakes his head. _Of course he’d already saved my phone._ “Thanks, Mycroft.”

Mycroft takes a seat at the table, and sips his coffee; tears off a piece of croissant. “You must allow me to order you a car at the end of the session.”

Greg raises one shoulder in a quick half-shrug. “Hopefully my clothes will've… ’S’good of you though Mycroft. Thank you.” He raises the croissant. “I’ll just finish this an’ we can –”

Mycroft presses his lips together. “Please remain next to the radiator. If you take a seat, I could do some short pose sketches. That will do for today.”

“Hey, no, honestly –” Greg shakes his head, swallowing a bite of croissant. “I’m good to carry on from last week. I know it’s different without the trousers but I was going to take the belt off anyway, could see it was ruinin’ the line below the hipbones –”

Mycroft’s grey eyes find Greg’s. For a moment he looks surprised, and then a small smile pulls at his lips. “Your instinct is unerring. You should really try drawing.”

“You offerin’ to sit for _me_ now?” asks Greg, with a grin.

“Emphatically not,” says Mycroft lightly, dropping his gaze. “There are far more worthy subjects. But I am convinced that you would excel.” He sips his coffee.

_‘More worthy subjects’?_ Greg frowns slightly. “I’m happy modelling,” he says firmly. “An’ don’t worry, I’ve dried out now. I’m alright to get on with it.”

“All the same, I do not believe you should allow yourself to get cold. Lying on the floor would, I fear, make that an inevitability. You will become ill, which would be most inconvenient given your responsibilities.”

“Honestly, Mycroft, I’ll be fine. I’ll put the towel down to lie on, alright? ’S’really warm in here now. Can prob’ly do without the jumper too.”

“I insist upon you keeping the jumper,” says Mycroft levelly. Suddenly he’s the Mycroft Greg’s seen at work occasionally: determined, ready to calmly and quietly obliterate all opposition.

Greg rolls his eyes and smiles. “Whatever you say. C’mon. Let’s get started.” He finishes his croissant and takes one more gulp of coffee, then leaves the fierce heat of the radiator, unwinding the towel from around his waist.

_Thank god I was wearing some alright boxers,_ thinks Greg. _What was it Gran always used to say? ‘Make sure you’ve got clean underwear on. You never know, you may get hit by a bus.’_

_Or soaked by one._ Greg grins to himself, spreading the towel out on the floor in front of the sofa where he’d been lying last week. He sits, crosses his legs and thinks about the rest of the pose; then takes the jumper off and throws it on the sofa.

_It’d ruin the arms and shoulders with all that fabric in the way. And that’d have an effect on what you can see of the face and hair, too._ He lies back, arms behind his head.

“Gregory –”

Greg snorts. “Mycroft, I’m not that sodding old! You’re makin’ out like I’m practically at death’s door already.” _Gregory? Is that how he thinks of me? Makes me sound like an ancient, gouty MP. Christ. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve got all this wrinkly old skin out, after all._

“I think this most unwise –”

“I spend hours standin’ in the cold at night, waitin’ for criminals to do what they do. An’ only last month I had to fish your bloody brother out the Serpentine at 3am, remember? You make me sound like a frail old man.”

He’d spoken jokily, but there’s a moment of silence – just long enough for Greg to start worrying that Mycroft’s taken it wrong.

“Well, you _are_ somewhat older than me –” Mycroft’s tone is bland, but Greg can hear the posh cheek behind the factual statement.

He gasps a laugh, and cranes his neck. Mycroft can’t be seen behind the easel. _“Bastard,”_ laughs Greg. “Jesus. I walked right into that one.”

“Perhaps so. I have no doubt you will retaliate, in due time.”

Greg lets his head and arms fall back onto the towel. “Prob’ly not wrong there,” his face is aching with a grin that just won’t fade. _Mycroft Holmes, joking around with me. Who’d’ve guessed?_ He stretches and arches his back a little, seeking the sense memory that will tell him when the pose is approximately right. “How’m I doing?” he asks. “Tell me what I need to change.”

“Your shoulders need to shift a little – a slight adjustment towards me. And if you could arch your back marginally more –”

“No worries,” murmurs Greg, shuffling to make the changes. “’S’that alright?”

“Quite correct.” Mycroft’s voice is bland again, with the detachment of someone concentrating on their work.

_He can hardly see you, really,_ thinks Greg. _Just the pose._ He swallows and looks up at the ceiling, seeking the quiet of modelling, the solitude of his own thoughts.

He finds it hard to switch off, today. He thinks about his clothes, drying on the radiators; about how soaked his shoes will be, how unpleasant the journey home. He’d been planning to do some shopping on the way back. _Better get home and change instead._

_Got to remember to apply for the warrants for the Dakers case,_ his brain adds. _Forgot to tell Sally about it before I left on Friday._

_Ed’s birthday soon, too. Need to find out from Hannah what they’re doing, arrange a pub trip if nothing else. Good chance to get his uni mates together again. They were alright, apart from that snotty one, but maybe he won’t be able to come._

_God, it was weird seeing Sherlock this week, when Sundays_ –

_Well, it_ wasn’t _weird, and then when I remembered about spending so much time with Mycroft, it was weird that I hadn’t felt weird about it…_

_Probably best he doesn’t find out I’m stripping off for his brother every weekend._

_Need to go to the pub with John again soon, too. Haven’t for ages. Not get drunk and talk about this, though._

_Imagine if Sherlock found out and fucked it all up._

It’s a quite startling realisation: how much he looks forward to this, now. And yeah, he could always get other modelling jobs, probably. But this – they’re in a routine. They have coffee, and croissants, and it’s – _he’s_ fun. They’ve started to have fun.

_It’s interesting. And I don’t want it to end._

“I believe we can leave it there for today,” says Mycroft quietly. “Thank you for your dedication – Greg.”

“W’time is it?” asks Greg, surprised to be roused from his thoughts so abruptly.

“Half past nine.”

“Oh. You don’t want to –”

“Thank you, no.”

Greg’s heart sinks. He’s got so used to running over time a bit, and they must’ve wasted loads of time this morning. He sits up, then slowly stands; crosses to the radiator. His jeans are damp still _,_ but much better, considering how soaked they were to start with. He pulls them on, not looking forward to when the heat from the radiator fades.

He pads to the bathroom, bringing his t-shirt and jumper back with him. They’re still slightly damp too.

“Gregory, please.” Mycroft is holding out the jumper he had lent Greg. “This will make the journey somewhat more bearable.”

“You sure?” Greg asks, hesitating. “’V’you got anything to keep warm? I mean, it’s still pouring out there –”

“I have a thick coat and a stout umbrella.”

Reluctantly, Greg takes the jumper and pulls it back on. “Thanks so much. I’ll get it – I guess it’s dry-cleaned, is it? – an’ give it you back next week.”

“Please do not feel that you must –”

Greg crosses to the radiator and pulls on his socks, enjoying the blessed warmth and dryness for a minute before he has to put on his waterlogged shoes. He pads to the easel. The details of the face, his arms and shoulders, have been built up, refined. Greg realises that the version of him in the picture is wearing a slight smile.

_Are my eyelashes really that long?_

The drawing radiates warmth and peace. Greg wants to climb inside the delicate sketch, inside that version of himself; wants to be as assured, as calm and contented as _that_ him seems.

“I think you see a different me,” says Greg, as lightly as he can. “Someone calmer. Kinder.”

Mycroft blinks, several times; looks away at the window running with rain. “Perhaps.” The way he says it means: _no._ “I have ordered you a car. It will be here in a moment.”

Greg sighs. “You’re too nice, Mycroft.”

“I fear that you have formed an entirely erroneous impression.”

Greg smiles. “Yeah, yeah. Okay.” He sits down on the sofa and puts his shoes on, grimacing as they make his socks soggy again. “Urgh.”

Mycroft presses his lips together, brow tight in sympathy. “I hope that the traffic allows you to return home relatively quickly.”

Greg pulls his jacket on over Mycroft’s jumper, and folds up his own tops. “Thanks so much again. An’ I’ll see you next week.”

“Indeed. I –” Mycroft bites his bottom lip, drawing up short.

Greg looks at him, expectantly.

“I appreciate your staying, despite the conditions.”

Greg shakes his head, and smiles. “No problem. I had fun. Have a good week. An’ don’t pull any all-nighters.”

“I might say the same to you.”

“Yeah. For all the good it’d do,” says Greg.

They smile at one another.

It takes a second before Greg realises he’s leaving, and heads for the door.

“Oh! Gregory –” Mycroft picks up Greg’s phone from the table and holds it out. “Your phone –”

“Honestly, Mycroft, you’re a lifesaver,” says Greg lightly. “What would I do without you?”

And he avoids thinking too closely about that, all the way down the stairs.


	6. Chapter 6

**[07:43] IMG_18924.jpg**

**[07:43] Passed a bakery on the way to work and couldn’t resist a midweek almond croissant. G**

**[07:45] How is it? MH**

**[07:46] Nice, yeah. Different. Flakier, not as much marzipan stuff. I can send you one if you want - sure the public won’t mind their money being spent on couriering a croissant across London :P  G**

**[07:47] Please do not extend the reckless endangerment of my waistline to weekdays, too. MH**

**[07:48] Shut up, idiot. G**

**[07:49] ‘Idiot’? MH**

**[07:50] Yep. When you say things like that. G**

**[07:51] Your attitude is baffling. MH**

**[07:52] Not as confusing as yours. Anyone with eyes can see you’ve no need to worry. G**

**[07:56] I hope you have a good day at work. MH**

**[07:57] You too. G**

*

**[22:06] I fear my record has been quite pitiful this week. So far this is my latest evening at my desk. MH**

**[22:09] Haha! Good. Think you could do with spending less time at work. Home elevenish yesterday but tonight we’re all at the pub, conviction from a big case last year. If my typing’s shitty it’s because I’m a few pints in :) x**

**[22:10] Perfectly intelligible, I assure you. MH**

**[22:12] Cheers ;) You off home now? x**

**[22:14] Dinner with a colleague, in fact. MH**

**[22:16] Anywhere nice? x**

**[22:17] A steak restaurant in Mayfair. Not my favourite, I fear. MH**

**[22:19] No? The steak not fancy enough?? :P x**

**[22:22] It is the sort of restaurant frequented by minor celebrities, press and photographers. A place to be seen. She enjoys notoriety. I do not, both by professional necessity and personal preference. MH**

**[22:24] Date?? x**

**[22:26] Maintenance of a cordial relationship with a colleague, nothing more. MH**

**[22:27] Sorry, apparently beer makes me nosy x**

**[22:29] Even were she not a colleague, she would still be a woman. MH**

**[22:30] Not your thing? x**

**[22:33] No. MH**

**[22:36] I hope that this will not make Sundays uncomfortable for you. MH**

**[22:37] Don’t be silly. I’m not big headed enough to think because you’re gay you must be attracted to me xx**

**[22:38] ‘Silly’? MH**

**[22:39] Yep. And an idiot. x**

**[22:40] I must go. Have a good evening. MH**

**[22:41] You too, hope you fend off all the photographers :) xx**

*

**[08:55] Sorry for texting so much last night! Woke up with a hangover today as you can imagine. Football’s going to be fun… G**

**[08:57] I apologise for the revelation regarding my sexuality. It was unnecessary. MH**

**[08:58] I asked, Mycroft. Please don’t feel uncomfortable. It’s not going to worry me. Be really fucking hypocritical if it did. Got to go, football’s starting and the team are yelling at me. G**

**[09:02] Enjoy the game. MH**

**[10:41] Ugh, did not feel great during that. Need a fry up to set me right! Sorry, cryptic message earlier. I’m bi and have slept with men in the past. No need to worry about me being homophobic or whatever. G x**

**[10:42] I appreciate your consideration in telling me. MH**

**[10:43] No problem :) Looking forward to tomorrow. I’ll get there a bit early so you can get that drawing finished and we can try some new poses next week. G**

**[10:44] Thank you. MH**

*

**[20:12] Hi Greg, thanks for dinner the other week. Sorry I haven’t been in touch, things have been busy at work. I’ll be attending a Law Society drinks event tomorrow evening. I have to show my face for an hour or so, then I’ll have time for dinner. You could meet me at the event, then we could go from there? Let me know. Helen**

*

“Mycroft, I’m so sorry,” says Greg, hanging up his jacket. “I’ve just remembered I left your jumper at mine. Didn’t have time to get it dry-cleaned in the week, and then I forgot –”

Mycroft looks up from pouring two cups of coffee. He’s wearing a soft navy shirt and tweed trousers.

Greg admires the cut of both. _He’s always so well-dressed, even on a Sunday morning. I wonder if he owns any clothes you just slob around the house in._

_I wonder what he raids the fridge in at 3am?_

_Probably doesn’t. His self-control is far too good. Silly, skinny git._

He only realises he’s smiling fondly when Mycroft looks confusedly at him, glances away, and looks back.

“Please do not trouble about the jumper,” says Mycroft, and Greg’s not sure whether he means the dry cleaning, or returning it at all.

_He can’t be expecting me to keep something that expensive._ He’d worn it once more at home this week, too lazy to go and find another when Mycroft’s was lying next to him on the sofa. It smelled good as he put it on. _S'pose it’s whatever cologne he uses._ Greg swallows, and crosses to the table, puts the almond croissants on the plates.

“Good week?”

“Quite, thank you. Hardly a late night among them.”

“Not sure anyone with a normal job’d agree with you there, Mycroft.”

“Yes, well, I am speaking to you.”

Greg smiles at him. “’S’true. An’ you? How was the steak? Didn’t see you on the front pages yesterday, so –” he grins as Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“How droll.”

“I try.” Greg takes a seat as Mycroft places a mug of coffee next to him. “Ta.”

“The steak was perfectly good, thank you. The company of chattering minor celebrities, unbearable.”

Greg grins. “Snob.” He starts on his almond croissant.

“I fear so.” Mycroft sips his coffee, and shoots Greg an inscrutable glance. “I am the first to admit that my popular culture knowledge is sadly lacking.”

“Don’t worry. Just ask Sherlock to give you a primer. Pretty sure he’s seen everything daytime TV has to offer.” Greg gestures at his plate. “The croissants from this place are def’nitely better than the ones near my work.”

“You will have to sample more from around the capital.”

“You’re all up for me eatin’ all this pastry. An’ yet I’m the one gettin’ my kit off every week.”

“I believe this is the point at which I assure you that you are being an ‘idiot’.”

Greg snorts a laugh. “Yeah, alright. Cheers.” He finishes his coffee and his croissant, gesturing towards the bathroom. “Just use the loo, then we’ll get started.”

When he emerges, Mycroft is washing up. The easel’s already set up. He keeps his back turned as Greg sheds his long-sleeved t-shirt, unbuckles his belt, and drops his trousers onto the sofa too.

In just his boxers, Greg gets into the pose. _He’s not looking because he doesn’t want me to think he’s perving, now I know he’s gay. Doesn’t want me get the wrong impression._ Greg tries to think of a way to put Mycroft at his ease that won’t come across as either awkward or weird, and fails.

Mycroft pads over to the easel, staring out of the window as he goes.

“Let me know what I need to change, yeah?” says Greg easily. He can already feel the calm of posing coming over him. He feels pliant, relaxed, ready to drift away into his own thoughts.

“Your arms need to tilt back a little more. Your right foot slightly – yes. Thank you.”

“No worries,” mumbles Greg, arching his back, pressing his shoulders into the floor.

_Haven’t replied to Helen’s text, yet, and I really need to. Be seeing Ed next week, and he’s bound to ask how it’s going. If it’s going._

_Is it going?_

_I mean…it didn’t really lead to anything. Not much of a spark, but maybe that’s just because we’re both busy at work._

_I ought to give it a chance, shouldn’t I? Give it one more go. And maybe I’ll have to try one of those dating sites or something, if it doesn’t work out._

It’s been strange, the past couple of weeks. After Zoe, the finalisation of the divorce – he’d relished having his own space, even in the shape of his tiny, scruffy flat. But now – he sighs. It’s like a switch has been flipped. Like his own company, in the limited time off he has, isn’t enough anymore. Like he wants someone else there with him, someone to discuss the day with, to share stupid jokes that only they get, and – well. _Christ, it’d be nice to have a sex life again. I was wrong. I’ve not stopped wanting it._ He’s been needier on that front in the last couple of weeks than he has in months.

_Maybe it’s all this stripping off I’ve been doing,_ he thinks, trying not to smile or roll his eyes.

“So was it just every summer you spent in France?” he asks, for something to say. “Or did you go there at Christmas too?”

“Oh, no,” says Mycroft quietly. “The village was positively abuzz at Christmas time. My parents enjoyed it too much to leave.”

“An’ you didn’t,” says Greg.

“We were solitary children, Sherlock and I,” returns Mycroft offhandedly. “To have the house filled, suddenly, with visitors, many of whom had children that we were expected to entertain…” he doesn’t finish the sentence.

“You can’t’ve been that solitary, with the two of you?” asks Greg, knowing he probably sounds nosy.

“I am seven years older than him,” says Mycroft. “I attended boarding school from the age of nine. It did not foster brotherly bonding.” He says the final word with delicately amusing contempt. It’s not enough to hide the bleakness of his tone. There’s a pause. “You have siblings?”

“One. Hannah. She’s younger than me too, but only by a couple of years. Lives in Bexleyheath. Husband, Ed, y’know, the one who…” Greg trails off. “They’ve got twins. Ten year-old boys.”

“I see,” Mycroft returns, sounding preoccupied.

“Aren’t you going to ask which one’s the creepy twin?” asks Greg, grinning. “’S’what people usually ask.”

“I assumed that likening your family to the premise of any number of sub-par horror films might not be the most tactful of conversational gambits.”

Greg snorts a laugh. “Well, you’re more diplomatic than most people, Mycroft.” After a moment, he adds, “so you’re more into horror films than you are most other popular culture, then?”

Mycroft sounds slightly surprised. “I – suppose so. Yes. Not gore. It does not interest me.”

Greg smiles. His back and shoulders are tired now, aching dully. He wonders how much of the session has passed. “I don’t mind a good horror film,” he says easily. “Come over sometime an’ we’ll watch one.” Only after he’s spoken does he think, _why did I say that?_ But the past week it’s felt more like he and Mycroft are friends than anything else; texting, finding things out about one another.

_Except he’s paying you for your time. Remember that. It’s a business arrangement, and I’m pretty sure he’s not forgotten it._

“Certainly,” says Mycroft smoothly. Greg thinks he can detect the insincerity of the polite diplomat in his tone. “Would you like to take a short break? You must be in need of movement by now.”

Greg looks up. “Actually I wouldn’t mind, if that’s –”

“Of course.” Mycroft walks away to the bathroom, and Greg groans as he sits up, then slowly stands. He reaches his arms behind his head, leaning back, stretching luxuriously. He moves his hips from side to side, then pulls each leg up behind him in turn as if he’s just finished a run.

“We have just twenty minutes left,” says Mycroft, returning to the easel. He’s not looking at Greg. “I apologise that I allowed you to pose for so long. I lost track of time myself. There is very little left to complete.” He speaks as though Greg must be happy to hear it, but Greg’s stomach is suddenly heavy.

_I wonder if he’s going to want to carry on after this. Maybe he’ll just find a model he doesn’t know. Someone who’ll actually do what he’s being paid for._

“Right. I'll…” Greg gestures at the floor, and starts to get back into the pose. His chest feels unreasonably tight. _I wish he’d just look at me. It’s not as if I’d think he fancies me. I’m not bloody stupid enough for that._

_Imagine the sort of man Mycroft Holmes must date. Just as intelligent as him, of course. And just as well-dressed._

_Imagine the conversations. Literature. Art. Opera, probably. Expect they’d play chess._

He tries to imagine the sex, and can’t. _Polite BDSM? I don’t know._

He wants to laugh at it, to find it funny, but his savage speculation is accompanied by a strange cold slither in his stomach. He arches his back, and holds still. He stares, frowning, at the ceiling.

“You look pensive, Gregory.”

“Ruinin’ the picture?” asks Greg, in what was meant to be a joking tone. Instead, it sounds needlessly aggressive.

There’s a slight pause. “Naturally not.”

“Sorry,” sighs Greg. “Just thinkin’ about – y'know. Work stuff. Nothing important.”

“Of course.” Mycroft says nothing else.

For the last ten minutes, Greg closes his eyes and tries not to think.

“Complete,” says Mycroft quietly. “Thank you for your time.”

Greg shakes his head slightly; stretches, and gets to his feet. He dresses quickly, back turned to Mycroft, then goes to the bathroom.

When he returns, he can’t resist looking at the easel.

The drawing stops him in his tracks. The shadows are deeper, more intense than they had been before. Shadow flows across the body, in the spaces between and below the ribs, in the bellybutton, beneath the arms; defining biceps, curving thighs, lifting cheekbones.

Greg’s gaze darts across it all, and sees deft, careful evocation of beauty.

“Fucking hell, Mycroft.” He’s surprised and horrified to realise that his voice is shaking. He presses his lips together, unable to say anything else.

He realises, suddenly, that it’s been a very long time since he considered himself attractive. _Not that I thought I was ugly, but I never thought – maybe someone else might –_

_You sort of assume, if your wife cheats on you repeatedly –_

“You are welcome to keep the drawing, if you like it,” says Mycroft blankly, from the small kitchen area. He’s washing his hands.

Greg pulls on his shoes and socks, then his jacket. He checks his phone’s in the pocket.

“Nah. It’s great – really good. You keep it, though.” He speaks as casually as he can. “Better run, Mycroft. Got a thing in a bit. See you soon.” He doesn’t even wait for a response before he opens the door.

*

**[09:46] Hi Helen, sorry to be slow to get back to you. Be great to see you tonight if you’re still around. What’s the dress code at this drinks thing though? I can manage a normal suit, but don’t own top hat and tails :) Greg**

**[09:49] Normal suit will do well. Meet outside Lincoln’s Inn at seven thirty? Helen**

**[09:50] Great. Where do you want to eat afterwards? Greg**

**[09:52] There’s a small Italian place near there. I could make a reservation, if that suits you. Helen**

**[09:52] Sure! See you later :) Greg**

*

“Greg. Nice to see you.” Helen’s hair is up in a chignon again, gleaming blonde in the street light outside Lincoln’s Inn. The trees shift and rustle in the wind. It’s not raining, but the air is sharp and fresh as though it might.

They kiss on the cheek. She smells good. _Some kind of perfume._

“How’ve you been?” he asks, holding the heavy panelled door open for her.

“Well, thank you,” she says coolly. Inside, she shows her ID and a crisp white invitation card at the reception. They are pointed towards a yellow-lit corridor, and a cloakroom. In the distance Greg can hear chatter and the occasional clink of glasses.

As their coats are hung up, sharing one cloakroom ticket, she asks, “and you?”

“All good, thanks,” he says, easily. “Busy at work. Big conviction from last year came through, though, so the team are feelin’ good from that. Otherwise – the usual, really. Gettin’ back into the running. Football on Saturday mornings.” _Stripping off for money on Sundays._

“You run?” she asks, but before he can answer, she gestures along the corridor in front of them. “I should warn you, this will be a very boring event. As I mentioned, I simply need to show my face and speak to a few colleagues. Then we can go. If anyone talks to you, just say you’re not a lawyer. They’ll probably have no idea what to do, then.”

Greg grins, and holds the door open for her again as they reach the source of the chatter. “Right you are.”

“Helen.” A tall man in a dark suit claims her attention immediately. He stoops slightly, and has thick glasses. “Didn’t know if you were coming. How _are_ you? And who is this? Other half, is it?”

She doesn’t answer that. “This is Greg Lestrade,” she says, smiling at the man. “He works for the Met. Greg, this is Jonathan Barrett, head of the chambers I worked for several years ago.”

“Yes, and sorry to lose her we were,” he says, courteously. “Now, Helen, Roger Turville-Green is here. Have you met him? No? You must. You simply must.” A hand on her elbow, he steers her away, and Greg sighs, resigning himself to boredom for an hour.

A waiter holds out a tray of champagne flutes, and Greg takes one. “Cheers.” He scans the room, and eventually sees an area with chairs, bookcases and a fireplace. _Boring legal books, probably, but whatever. I can do a few work emails and drink champagne._

The background noise level of chatter is rising, lawyers drinking and gossiping enthusiastically. The leather wingback armchairs are taken, but Greg leans against the windowsill and takes out his phone.

_Why the hell’d she bring me to this?_ he wonders. _She must’ve known I’ve nothing in common with all these lawyers. I could’ve just met her for dinner. And abandoning me first thing? Wouldn’t catch me doing that to a date._

He answers a couple of work emails, then remembers Hannah had texted him a few hours ago.

**[19:57] You’re alright with Saturday night then? Won’t mind if he comes home a bit pissed? His uni mates seem up for the pub. G xx**

**[19:59] That’s fine :) We’ll do family cake and presents with him on Sunday. Want to stay over that night after the pub? I’ll make you both a fry-up in the morning xx Han xx**

Greg stares absently at the pattern of yellow light from the chandeliers, reflected around the room in champagne glasses, in hair and rings and watchfaces. _Sunday morning,_ he thinks. His sister’s fry-ups are the best, but – _Sunday morning._

_You don’t even know if he’ll want you. You didn’t ask._

_Yeah, because you’re too fucking chicken. You’d rather not know, because you’ve started to rely on it too much. Idiot._

His brain is concentrating absently on the light, still, and a gleam of it on the toe of a polished black shoe catches his eye. Someone sitting with their back to him in the tall wingback armchair, shifting uncomfortably in their seat. A man, by the well-tailored black trouserleg; and another man, in the other chair, leaning forward eagerly. Reaching a hand into personal space. Greg tenses, without quite knowing why.

“Kindly do not.” The voice is crisp and cutting. Greg’s heart misses a beat; his stomach swoops. _Jesus. That’s Mycroft._

“Oh come on.” A plummy voice, full of greasy, overconfident charm. “Not as though I’m doing anything inappropriate. Two old acquaintances, chatting by the fire. Nothing wrong with that.”

“I asked you not to. Proceed, and I shall ruin your career faster than you can imagine.”

“Yeah?” It’s a sneer. “I’ll make sure everyone knows, Holmes. Your sort are a danger. No-one easier to blackmail than someone like you. The service knows it. See how long you last.”

“You imagine my employers are not already in possession of this information.”

“That’s not the point. The point is whether everyone _else_ is. The press. Your colleagues. The other services.”

“Your blackmail attempt, like everything else you do, is both hamfisted and deeply misguided. I suggest you reconsider.” Mycroft’s voice is as cold as Greg’s ever heard it; but he can hear the fear behind it too. He hopes the other man doesn’t know Mycroft well enough to understand. He swallows, mouth sour with the aftermath of champagne.

“Nasty little bitch, Holmes. Just like you were at school.”

“At school you could get what you wanted with violence. In _this_ world, I should like to see you try.”

_Violence? Fucking hell._ Greg’s stomach dissolves, pure anger running like cold fire down his spine. Fury clenches his fists. He takes a breath, puts his phone in his pocket and stands up.

“Mr Holmes? That you?” he asks mildly, moving to stand next to the armchairs. Mycroft is pale, dressed to the nines, his grey eyes black pools blazing with reflected firelight. “Haven’t seen you in ages,” says Greg, playing the dumb, amiable copper. “Mind you, Sherlock’s not been bad recently, quite polite really, even to the forensic team. Who’s this?” he asks suddenly, turning to the other man. “Friend of yours?”

“Jasper Monroe,” says Mycroft quietly. “An old acquaintance.” His voice drips dislike.

Monroe’s quick flick of a gaze takes Greg in from head to toe. He smirks, slightly, and doesn’t offer his hand.

Then again, Greg doesn’t offer his either.

“Sherlock’s caretaker, hmm?” he asks. “Oh, the Holmes boys. Always frighteningly clever, always. Impatient with us mere mortals. A thankless task you’ve got, I imagine.”

“Nah, not really,” says Greg, allowing his accent to strengthen slightly. “Lawyer, are you?” he asks, and Monroe blinks. He hadn’t been expecting a question.

“Politician, actually,” he says.

“Oh.” Greg lets the moment of silence extend slightly uncomfortably, as he would in the interview room. “Well if you don’t mind, I’ve got something to discuss with Mr Holmes.” _I’d like to punch this piece of shit right on his ugly nose. Wouldn’t make anything better for Mycroft though, would it?_

Mycroft stands, and even with cold, sick dislike of Monroe crawling in his belly, Greg can’t help but admire the elegant economy of his movements.

“’S’there a room around here somewhere?” he asks, out of the corner of his mouth.

“Left and left again,” murmurs Mycroft in return.

They move slowly through the crowd, not talking.

When Greg closes the door after them, the sudden silence feels heavy. It’s another dark, panelled room, and the only light comes from a streetlamp outside the window.

“What did you hear?” asks Mycroft, quietly. He stands at ninety degrees to Greg, head turned to look out of the window.

Greg swallows. “All of it, I think.” He watches Mycroft turn his head fractionally further away. “Did I do the right thing?”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s answer is immediate. “Thank you,” he adds, and his voice sounds slightly strangled.

“Mycroft, please.” Greg’s chest hurts. _You don’t need to thank me._ “Listen, was he talking about – you being gay? Blackmail, and all that?”

Slowly, Mycroft nods. “Yes. It is known, by my employers.”

“In this day and age, surely –”

“Some of the countries with which I conduct –” Mycroft clears his throat, still not looking at Greg. “Still. The man is an incompetent. He relies on our – old association – to assert his will over me. His threats will not work. Nonetheless, I – appreciated your intervention.” Mycroft sounds as though he is trying not to allow his voice to crack. “It was tactfully done.”

Greg steps closer to Mycroft, putting himself in front of him. Seeking eye contact. “You were at school with that shit?”

“Yes.”

“Urgh.”

Mycroft’s grey eyes are nothing but a gleam in pools of deep shadow. “Quite so.” He allows a touch of slightly relieved, sardonic humour to enter his voice.

Greg pushes his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Listen, Mycroft –” he hesitates. “You’re prob’ly going to think this sounds really childish but – we’re friends now, aren’t we? Mates?”

He can see that Mycroft is blinking, rapidly. “Yes,” he says at last. Greg wishes, desperately, that he could obliterate the caution in that single word.

“C’n I have a hug?” asks Greg, with awkward humour. _Can I give you a hug? Can I erase whatever trace of a fucking touch that greasy shit might have left on you?_

“I –” Mycroft sounds utterly surprised. “Yes. If.”

Greg doesn’t give himself time to think. He steps in, puts his arms around Mycroft’s neck, and hugs him close. Breathes him in, and there it is: the scent of the cologne that permeates, faintly, the jumper lying on Greg’s sofa. It makes Greg feel just a bit dizzy.

Slowly, Mycroft’s arms come up; his hands lie lightly on Greg’s shoulderblades, as if he’s scared to frighten him away.

“D'you still want me next Sunday?” asks Greg, into Mycroft’s hair.

“Yes,” says Mycroft, still sounding surprised. “Please.” Then: “why? If you have –”

Greg shakes his head, vehemently. “No. Honestly. Just makin’ arrangements.” He squeezes Mycroft one more time, then lets go, steps back. “If that piece of _shit_ does anything –”

“He will not.” Mycroft sounds more composed now, more like himself. “I shall ensure he is kept busy.”

Greg grins. “An’ I’m not going to ask what that means.”

“For the best.” They smile at one another.

“C'mon.” Greg gestures to the door. “We’d better go back in.”

Back in the reception room, the noise has reached almost unbearable levels. Greg’s just turning to say something to Mycroft about getting some more champagne, when he feels someone grab his arm.

“Greg! There you are. I’m almost ready to go, if you are?” Helen smiles at him, raising her eyebrows over her nearly-empty champagne glass.

“Oh,” says Greg, wrong-footed. “Right. Yeah.”

“Who’s this?” Helen asks, looking up at Mycroft.

“Mycroft Holmes,” says Greg. “I work with his brother. Mycroft, this is Helen Abernathy. She’s –” he swallows. “She invited me.”

Mycroft and Helen shake hands, and exchange ‘nice to meet you’-style remarks. Greg steals a glance at Mycroft. He looks absolutely impassive.

There’s a slightly awkward pause.

“Right,” says Helen, checking her small gold watch. “Well, the reservation awaits. Shall we?”

“Yeah.” Greg looks up at Mycroft. “So I’ll see you – soon. Not going to hang around here too long are you?” He scans the crowd, wondering where Monroe’s got to.

“No.” Mycroft nods at him, then looks quickly away. “Always a pleasure, Detective Inspector. Enjoy your evening.”

“Thanks.” Greg smiles, trying to catch Mycroft’s eye again, but he’s too slow; someone else has already claimed him, reaching out to shake hands.

Mycroft turns away, and Greg follows Helen towards the cloakroom.


	7. Chapter 7

It takes Greg a long time to type the text, with many deletions and revisions.

**[07:59] Thanks for dinner last night, Helen. You’re great but I’m going to move on and date other people. Really appreciate you spending some time with me. Greg**

It still feels awkward and inadequate.

*

**[08:12] Morning! Get home okay? Hope you managed to avoid that slimy Monroe bastard. G x**

**[08:53] I did. My thanks again for your timely intervention. MH**

**[08:54] No problem. Always happy to help however I can. G x**

*

**[14:37] IMG_181001.jpg**

**[14:37] Suspect hit my hand with a bit of piping this morning and it’s coming up nicely. Do you do colour drawings too?? G x**

**[20:20] DCIM_00017.jpg**

**[20:20] Somewhat poorly. MH**

**[20:26] Plonker. You can even make a mashed-up hand look artistic. G x**

**[20:27] ‘Plonker’? The list of my nicknames lengthens. MH**

**[20:28] Additionally, I am somewhat concerned about the ‘mashed-up’ nature of your hand. Have you seen a doctor? MH**

**[20:29] That’s not a nickname, Mycroft, that’s a description. Stop saying plonkerish things about yourself and I’ll stop describing you that way :)  The ambulance guys prodded it on scene and said it was fine. G x**

**[20:31] Perhaps a more thorough medical examination than ‘prodding it on scene’ might be wise? MH**

**[20:34] I’ll be fine Mycroft, honestly :)  You home then, if you can draw? G x**

**[20:35] Yes. No commitment to taking the trophy. MH**

**[20:36] Disappointing :/  No fight left in you, Holmes. I thought you’d at least give me a run for my money. G x**

**[20:38] Then you are still out Detective Inspecting? MH**

**[20:39] Um…no. I’m home and have been since six thirty. G x**

**[20:41] Amateur. MH**

**[20:42] I know, I know. Had a run, made a curry, and took a hot bath. Because I’m old, okay? G x**

**[20:45] An excellent evening, I am sure. As for your age… MH**

**[20:47] …yes, Mycroft? G x**

**[20:48] … MH**

**[20:49] Bastard. G xx**

*

**[21:01] Oh Christ Mycroft I have to apologise in advance, I’m going to look rough as hell tomorrow x**

**[21:02] Are you ill? You must not push yourself to attend if you are unwell. MH**

**[21:05] Brother in law’s birthday drink -been out for couple of hours already and his uni mates won’t stop buying round s x**

**[21:06] I am sure the hangover would produce an artistically interesting pallor, but please do not force yourself to leave the house if you are not well. MH**

**[21:11] I’ll be there x**

**[21:55] Jesus theyre all going on about the wife and kids x**

**[21:57] Are there any poses you particularly wish to try tomorrow? MH**

**[22:06] Maybe I should actually take all my clothes off like you wanted ha ha**

**[22:08] I suspect that is not a conversation for now, Gregory. Nor for tomorrow morning. MH**

**[22:13] it’s alright the conversation s about football now**

**[22:14] the important thing is ed’s having a good time. That s the important thing xx**

**[22:16] Indeed. He is lucky to have family and friends like you. MH**

**[22:19] We re friends Mycroft. You said we were x**

**[22:22] If you wish to be, we are. MH**

**[22:27] you’re intelligent and you draw so well and you make me laugh. You don t have to look away when I’m bake though I know its not like that x**

**[22:28] makes**

**[22:28] naked**

**[22:30] Might I request that you drink some water, Gregory? MH**

**[22:36] do you only date men you play chess with ? xx**

**[22:39] Gregory, your remarks have taken a turn for the surreal. I have not ‘dated’ in many years, but I cannot remember chess being a deciding factor in my choice of partner. MH**

**[22:47] seem s like a waste . of you x**

**[22:49] Are you drinking some water? MH**

**[22:55] yes . a bottle . an the lads are taking the Michael**

**[22:57] No doubt. I suspect that you may thank yourself tomorrow morning, however. MH**

**[23:04] i ll just thank you instead xx**

*

When Greg wakes to the sound of the alarm he’d forgotten that he set, he’s in an unfamiliar bed, and dizzy with tiredness. It’s when he sees the dinosaur-print curtains he realises that he’s at Hannah and Ed’s in Bexleyheath.

_Bollocks._

_Must’ve just come back here in the taxi with Ed._

He jumps out of bed and rushes through a quick shower; pulls his jeans on and takes an old t-shirt of Ed’s from the spare room wardrobe, not fancying last night’s shirt. It smells of pub, and smoke. _Hope I didn’t bloody smoke last night._ He’s been doing well at keeping off the cigs.

Luckily they keep a toothbrush for him in the bathroom cabinet, and he feels a lot more human once he’s brushed twice.

He dozes on the train into central London. _Thank goodness Charing Cross is the last stop._ Drifting in and out of consciousness, he rests his forehead against the cool glass of the window. There’s barely anyone else on the train at this time on a Sunday.

He stands up on the Tube to stay awake, and it’s only then that he scrolls through last night’s messages.

Adrenaline kicks in as he reads them, the grey, dragging clouds of tiredness lifting as his heart pounds. Blood rushes in his ears, making him deaf to the clatter of the Tube. He knows he’s gone bright red with embarrassment.

_Oh, Christ._

_You want him. You want Mycroft. And Jesus fucking Christ, he must know it now._

_Oh god, Greg, could you be any more obvious?_

_What the fuck is he going to say?_

He looks back at the end of the conversation, flushing again as he looks at the texts. _He just wanted you to stop. Drink water. Sober up and stop bothering him._

_Christ. Fix this, somehow._

He knows he’s still red in the face when he opens the door of the studio, carrying the usual bag of almond croissants.

Mycroft, seated at the table with a cup of coffee, looks up and raises an eyebrow. “Gregory.” He looks surprised. “How are you feeling?”

Greg pushes off his shoes and socks, takes off his jacket and hangs it up. He runs a hand through his hair. Looking at Mycroft makes him feel slightly dizzy, so he concentrates on small details instead: two plates on the table but no extra coffee mug next to the cafetière.

“Actually, okay?” he says, as lightly as he can. “Jus’ tired, really.” He steps forward and puts the bag of croissants down on the table, then drops into the chair opposite Mycroft’s.

Mycroft tips his head to the side. “Would you usually have a hangover?” he asks, cautiously.

“Well, yeah,” says Greg, caught off guard. “S'pose sometimes you just get lucky –”

Mycroft gives a slight huff of amusement, then gets to his feet and walks to the small kitchen area. He fills a pint glass with cold water and passes it to Greg, then pulls on his own coat.

“Um – where are you going?” asks Greg, turning in his chair.

“Your body is still breaking down the alcohol, Gregory. You do not have a hangover yet because you are still drunk. Logic dictates that the after-effects will begin to take hold soon, at which point I confidently expect you to feel –” he hesitates, a half-smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “Rather less good than you do now. There is plenty we can do to mitigate it. I shall return shortly, and I should like you to have finished that glass of water by the time I do.”

Greg can’t help grinning. “If you say so.”

“I do,” says Mycroft. For a moment a heart-stoppingly sweet smile curves his lips and crinkles the corners of his grey eyes.

Greg reads the news on his phone, and finishes the glass of water. He even makes it halfway down a second glass by the time Mycroft gets back.

“I swear it’s my second,” he says, quickly, as Mycroft puts a box of painkillers down on the table next to him.

“That much is evident.”

Greg tries not to grin. _Probably shouldn’t say how much he reminds me of Sherlock sometimes._

“Take two,” says Mycroft firmly. He puts another paper bag down on the table, and transfers a huge bacon bap from it to Greg’s plate. “And eat.” There’s a bag of bananas too, from Tesco. “There is some evidence to support their utility in helping with a hangover, but I could never stomach them,” says Mycroft. “I bought them in case.”

Greg smiles, disbelievingly. He takes the painkillers with some water. “God, Mycroft –”

Mycroft blinks and looks at the table. “I may seem officious,” he says, more blankly. “But I assume there is some benefit to us both in forestalling the worst effects.”

“Oi.” Greg gently touches Mycroft’s arm. “I meant it in a good way. Thank you. You obviously know the way to a hungover man’s heart is through a bacon sandwich.”

_Fucking idiot. Why did you put it that way?_

Mycroft blinks and turns abruptly away. “Coffee?”

“Oh, god, please.” Greg could almost groan.

“Start eating,” urges Mycroft. “And continue to drink the water.”

“Yes, Mum.”

Mycroft just shoots him a look. Greg grins.

“Your brother-in-law had a good birthday celebration?” Mycroft comes back to the table with two steaming mugs of coffee, and takes a seat with his back to the window.

Greg winces. “Well, I remember him having fun last night, but then – an’ I didn’t see him this morning. Assume he was still asleep –”

Mycroft gives him an amused glance. “Perhaps it would be best for you to return to your flat and do likewise.”

Greg swallows a bite of bacon bap and takes a swig of coffee. “’M’fine. God, this coffee’s good.”

Mycroft takes an almond croissant from the bag that Greg had brought with him, and places it delicately on his plate. “You must have woken very early to get here on time from – was it Bexleyheath you mentioned?”

“Alarm was set,” says Greg. “Had no idea what was going on when _that_ went off.”

Mycroft smiles slightly. “Why on earth you did not simply turn it off and go back to sleep, I do not know.”

“Keep tellin’ you,” says Greg gruffly. “I like this. ’S’fun. I enjoy it.”

Mycroft glances up, then quickly away from Greg’s gaze. He does not seem sure what to say.

“Listen, Mycroft –” Greg clears his throat. For the first time this morning, he feels slightly sick. “I – I’m really sorry for texting you so much last night. I was really pissed, an’ reading it back it looks like I was spouting a right load of crap.”

Mycroft makes a dismissive flicking gesture with the long fingers of his left hand. “I do not mind, Gregory. Please do not concern yourself.”

Greg bites his lip. “’M’just – sorry.” He picks up his coffee mug with a slightly shaky hand. “After – last Sunday – I don’t want to – that Monroe bloke –”

Mycroft’s head tips to the side, and he blinks for a moment. Then he frowns, slightly, and Greg sees his eyes darken. “I fail to see how you can possibly be reminded of the situation.”

Greg’s heart is beating wildly. He’s breathless. Looking down fixedly at the grain of the wooden table, he shrugs. “No, I – I just. There’s no need for you to text back when I’m – if I – I don’t want to make you –”

Mycroft frowns, cheeks tinged slightly with pink. “I enjoy receiving your messages. There is no need to be concerned. And I have made clear that I appreciate your efforts on my behalf with Monroe deeply.”

Greg takes a breath, heart calming a bit. “Yeah, I – I felt like shit leaving you there with him –”

Mycroft shakes his head slightly. “No need. He had departed, thankfully.” He glances up, then quickly away. “In any case, you had an important appointment. How was the remainder of your evening?”

Greg smiles. “Yeah, fine. Nice Italian place. Interesting person, zero chemistry whatsoever. We had a drink after and I was home by one o'clock.”

Mycroft presses his lips together. “Oh. So –”

“No more gettin’ abandoned at boring law do’s, yeah,” says Greg. “Although I s'pose I don’t mind I was at that one. We gave it a fair go.” He sighs. “I don’t know. I’ve been – I want to start seein’ people again but…” he shrugs. “Be nice to meet someone a bit more naturally.”

Mycroft’s gaze slides away. “Of course,” he murmurs.

There’s a short, heavy pause.

“So,” says Greg, into the silence. “D'you want me to –” he gestures at the easel. “You’ll want to get started.”

Mycroft looks at him sceptically. “Gregory. You must wish to go home and sleep. I shall order you a car.”

Greg puts his hands over his face. “God. Must admit that sofa’s looking inviting for a kip.” He groans. “This is shit though. I’m an idiot. I’d better not find you’ve paid me for this when I check.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes slightly, and Greg points at him with a mock-fierce expression.

There’s a moment of quiet.

“Hey, listen. Are you up to anything tonight?” Greg says, casually.

“No.” Mycroft sounds cautious.

“Come to mine, then,” says Greg. “I’ll make dinner to apologise for my heavy drinking ruinin’ this morning. Bring your sketchbook. We can relax, an’ you sketch if you want to.”

Mycroft blinks. “Are you – sure?”

Greg smiles gently. “Yeah. It’ll be fun. Are you allergic to anything, food-wise? Hate anything?”

“Not particularly.” Mycroft looks rather flummoxed, as though he’s not quite hearing what’s being said.

“Great. Don’t bring wine, unless you fancy it. Think I might be havin’ a dry night.”

A quick half-smile. “Understood.”

“Half seven?”

“Certainly.”

“I’ll text you the address.”

Mycroft looks briefly at his phone. “Your car is here.”

“You sure it’s alright, me using your car service like this?”

“Certainly. I shall be walking home.”

Greg stands up. He so tired he sways slightly on his feet. “Right then. ’M’going to have a nap, an’ then hopefully feel a bit more human.”

He sits on the sofa to put his shoes on, fingers clumsy with tiredness.

“Please do not take too much trouble over cleaning and cooking, Gregory.” Mycroft sounds rather tentative.

Greg stands up, and pulls on his jacket. “Nah, don’t worry. It’ll be something quick, promise. So I’ll – see you later, alright?”

“Indeed.”

“Bye Mycroft. Have a good day.”


	8. Chapter 8

**[18:37] Han, don’t take the piss but I want to look good for someone. Black or navy shirt? G x**

**[18:39] Is this Helen??? Pictures  xx Han xx**

**[18:48] IMG_181007.jpg**

**[18:48] IMG_181008.jpg**

**[18:52] Black. Jesus you look better than Ed does right now. He spent half the morning throwing up. xx Han xx**

**[18:54] Saved in the nick of time by a bacon butty and some painkillers :)  Cheers darlin xx**

**[18:55] So is it Helen?? xx Han xx**

*

Greg had got ready and dressed with a lot more care than he usually would. He’d taken his time in the shower, and over doing his hair; shaved carefully, and put on cologne. Now he’s wearing dark grey jeans, and the black shirt Hannah had picked.

It’s not his reflection in the mirror that makes him smile, but the memory of Mycroft’s drawing. He seems to see it, separate yet mapping onto his own body.

_That’s what he sees._

The last half-hour before Mycroft arrives is spent finishing off the artichoke, olive and lemon spaghetti dish.

Just before half-past, Greg looks around. His flat looks good. After a few hours’ nap, he’d got up and cleaned it from top to bottom. Lit only with lamps and a few candles, it looks warm and welcoming. _Should’ve done more to make it look like mine though,_ he thinks, looking at the bare white walls. There’s a small bookcase full of DVDs and books next to the TV; _otherwise it barely looks like I moved in._

He hasn’t really invited other people over here, before. He’s had visits, of course, from Hannah and Ed and the boys, mostly picking him up on the way to somewhere else. The occasional drop-in by Donovan, if they get a callout to a scene early in the morning. Looking around now, he realises he’s essentially just been dossing here.

_I’ll put some pictures up next weekend. Maybe change the curtains. Hannah’ll probably want to help._ He grins. His little sister loves home decoration magazines. _Christ. I’m going to end up with black walls or something._

The buzzer goes, and Greg takes a deep breath.

“Hiya?” he says, into the intercom.

“Hello.” Mycroft sounds self-conscious, and Greg recognises the strained silence of a Holmes trying not to say something obvious like, ‘it’s me’.

Greg grins to himself. “Hey. I’ll just buzz you in.”

He opens the door of his flat, and watches Mycroft walk up the stairs. He’s wearing a dark grey tweed suit. _Fucking hell, don’t think I’ve seen that before. I wonder if he knows how good he looks._

“Lookin’ sharp,” he smiles, as Mycroft reaches his door. “Great suit.”

Mycroft blinks, and looks down. He holds out a small rectangular box. “Given the prohibition on alcohol…”

The box feels expensive in Greg’s hand; thick card embossed in silver with a brand-name he’s never heard of. “Marzipan?” Greg grins. “Nice. What would we do without something almondy to eat? Come in. Let me take your coat.”

As Greg hangs up Mycroft’s coat, Greg sees that he’s pushing off his shoes.

“Oh, don’t worry ’bout –”

Mycroft half-smiles. “It is raining outside. I do not intend to trample mud into your living room.”

Greg leads him inside. “Well I didn’t make any pudding, so these’ll be great,” he says, putting the box of dark chocolate marzipans down next to the kettle. “We can have coffee and almond things. ’S’traditional now, isn’t it?”

He sees the flat again with fresh eyes as they walk to the kitchen; and now the yellow lamplight, the flickering candles, look undeniably, incriminatingly romantic. _Christ, I hope this isn’t coming across creepy,_ thinks Greg desperately. He busies himself with the food.

“You managed to sleep?” asks Mycroft quietly.

Greg grins, and looks up at him. “Yeah, thank god. I was knackered. Feeling less rough now. Sorry – d’you want a drink? There’s a jug of water and glasses on the table, but I’ve got squash in the cupboard, I think, and orange juice in the fridge –”

“Water will be quite sufficient. Can I pour you anything?”

“Nah, I’m alright thanks, I’ll have water with dinner. Yeah, you properly saved me. My sister texted to say Ed was throwing up all morning. Not sure he’ll’ve enjoyed the cake the boys made him as much as he could’ve.”

Mycroft leans over the table, pouring them each a glass of water.

Greg reaches down some bowls, and starts distributing spaghetti into them, attempting to curl it in tidy swirls around a fork.

“Hope you’re alright with artichoke, olive and lemon pasta?” he asks. “Oh, an’ it’s got garlic in, too.” Sighing, he shakes spaghetti off the fork. “This isn’t going to be very photogenic, I’m afraid.”

“That is quite alright. I have not succumbed to the modern practice of photographing one’s food for the edification of the internet.”

Greg grins at him. “Oh, don’t. I spent a lot of the last time I went to the pub trying to persuade the DCs I _def’nitely_ don’t want to join Instagram.” He puts his head on one side. “Although, maybe _you_ ought to put your art up on there.”

Mycroft stands up straight and raises one eyebrow. “I am _sure_ you can imagine Sherlock’s reaction to –”

“Well not your name, obviously. Or my face. But –”

Mycroft rolls his eyes slightly. It doesn’t disguise the slightly fond smile he can’t seem to repress. “A ludicrous idea, and you know it.”

Greg huffs rueful amusement. “Sherlock _would_ kick off, wouldn’t he?”

“Beyond all possible doubt.” Mycroft takes a seat at the table, crossing his legs elegantly.

“God knows why. I mean, you’ve a right to a life. Outside work, I mean.”

“You think him likely to engage in reasoned debate on the issue?”

Greg smiles indulgently. “Maybe not.” He carries the bowls to the table, then returns to the fridge to bring over a bowl of freshly-grated Parmesan. “There, I think that’s everything. Hope it’s alright.”

“It looks, and smells, delicious. Thank you, Gregory.”

Greg takes a seat, and sprinkles a generous serving of Parmesan over his spaghetti. “So. Couldn’t help noticing –” he says, when he’s finished his first mouthful, “– you seem to know all about hangover cures. You a secret party animal, Mycroft?” He smiles, but gently. _Hope he knows I’m not taking the piss._

Mycroft raises one eyebrow at him. “Truly you are hilarious, Gregory.”

“Yeah, I know,” grins Greg. “Can’t avoid the question that way, though.”

“Even I engaged in the occasional night of excessive drinking at university.”

“Only nat’ral, I hear.” _He probably knows I didn’t go to uni, right? He’ll have read my file. Guessing it’s obvious anyway. Not exactly the scholarly type, me._

_Couldn’t be further from what he’d want._ Greg winces, remembering the mortifying texts he’d sent last night.

“Quite.” Mycroft’s smile is a sideways twist, not particularly full of amusement. “Your past sounds far more likely to have been filled with nights of wild excess. You mentioned a band.”

Greg laughs. “God. Well, yeah. Can’t argue there I s’pose.” He rubs his eyes. “Wasn’t exactly sober. But it was more ’cause I had no idea what I was doing with my life, not ’cause we were particularly wild or anythin’.”

“And you were – how old?”

“Christ, seventeen, eighteen. I –” Greg hesitates, heart sinking. “I really hated school. Just wanted to leave. So I did, at sixteen. I know it prob’ly seems stupid to you but I couldn’t stand all the nonsense they seemed to talk. Stuff we’d never use. I – I wanted to do something useful.” He looks away, takes a sip of water. _There. Now he knows._

Mycroft clears his throat slightly. When Greg looks up, he sees thoughtful interest in those grey eyes.

“I, too, wished to do something useful,” says Mycroft quietly. “It was more that I saw school as an opportunity to step outside that, occasionally. There were subjects which would not benefit my long-term goals, but which interested me nonetheless. It was –” he lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug, “– an escape, in some senses. In a way that university was not.”

Greg gives a quick half-smile. “You’re lucky. School did nothing but make me feel stupid.”

“That is the fault of the teachers, Gregory, not of the student.” Mycroft’s voice is calm and quiet. “Your profession attests to your intelligence.”

“You think?” Greg tries to cover his surprise with humour. “Sometimes I wonder if doin’ this is evidence of stupidity in itself.”

“I am sure that all who pursue a profession have that impression at times.” Mycroft catches Greg’s eye. “I certainly do.”

Greg laughs. “Can’t imagine you doin’ anything else, really, Mycroft.” He spears an olive on his fork. “Not that I exactly know what you do. But – somethin’ mysterious an’ all-powerful.”

“Hardly that.” Mycroft winds up a forkful of spaghetti, fingers deft. “I am perennially grateful that it was you Sherlock encountered. Most Scotland Yard detectives would never have considered what he could become, if given the opportunity.”

Greg shrugs; shifts in his chair. “You give me too much credit. My clear-up rate’s through the roof, thanks to him. You know that.”

Mycroft sits back and looks steadily at him. “It is true. The fact remains that he trusts you. That he regards you as a friend.”

“Does he?” Greg gives a quick huff of laughter. “I doubt he trusts anyone but John, to be honest. An’ you. He makes a show of – what he does, when you’re around – but I saw, back then. He pushed you away, but he always knew you’d be there. An’ he always made you a list.”

Greg sees Mycroft’s slight wince. _Fuck. Shouldn’t’ve said that._

“He does _not_ trust me, Gregory. Not at all. But we are, and always have been, linked by common experience. We observe –” he looks away. “I have never met another person, besides Sherlock, who _sees_ in the same way. Sometimes it is – to know that there is someone with whom I can –”

“’Course,” says Greg, and he fights the urge to put his hand on Mycroft’s arm. “Not the same, obviously, but siblings…even just growin’ up together. Knowing that the other one knows – the dynamics, of your family. How it was. Is. Sometimes it’s bad. An’ sometimes it’s a massive comfort.”

Mycroft raises his eyes; looks at Greg for a long, quiet moment. “And your sister? She attended university?”

“Yeah. Studied Business and Management. She works in HR.”

Mycroft’s eyes dart across Greg’s face. “You and she took different paths, then.”

Greg smiles. “Ask what you’re actually askin’.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows lift slightly in surprise, but he meets the challenge. “You say you felt purposeless. That you were eager to leave school. You mentioned the difficulties of family dynamics –” he shrugs, shifts in his chair. “Your sister, however, obviously had a sense of security and a clear ambition. Perhaps you managed to create for her what you did not have.” He adds, rather uncomfortably. “I am guessing, nothing more.”

“Nice when a Holmes admits he’s just guessing,” smiles Greg. He finishes his mouthful of spaghetti. “My file doesn’t go into all this?”

“I have not read your file,” says Mycroft, and his grey eyes are full of sincerity. “You were vetted, of course, on commencement of your association with Sherlock. I read only the barest of details.”

“Just enough to threaten me in a warehouse.”

Mycroft almost smiles. “Quite.”

Greg sighs; runs a hand through his hair. “I dunno. If I did manage, for Hannah – then that’s good. Our Dad – fucked off. When I was fifteen. No excuse, no reason. Just couldn’t be arsed with us any more. Had an affair and left us behind. He didn’t even get her pregnant an’ start a second family, all that. Just – decided he’d had enough of family life.”

Mycroft listens, face impassive.

“I hated school already before he left, an’ I’d been playing up, causing trouble. He’d been in the army, an’ he valued discipline. He wasn’t violent – well, not – not for back then. The occasional cuff round the ear that no-one would’ve thought twice about, though it’s not on now. But he had no idea how to deal with me behavin’ like that. An’ I always thought – I s’pose part of me thought it was me that made him leave, y’know?” Greg turns his head, and stares fixedly at a candle on the coffee table. “So I just went to pieces, I s’pose, looking back, but at the time it felt like freedom, like ‘fuck you’, to him. To everyone. But I did try, with Hannah. Helped that she was a bit younger. She missed Dad, ’course she did, but…” he shrugs, and hesitates, but Mycroft remains silent. “I – felt guilty. Felt like I’d taken him from her.”

“Any parent who would leave due to teenage rebellion –”

Greg looks up, smiles at Mycroft’s earnest expression. “I know that now. ’Course I do. He was just a selfish prick who left Mum to deal with it all. But – kids, you know. They blame themselves, no matter what.” The dancing blue negative of the candle flame impresses itself on everything he looks at. “If we’re askin’ about family…” Greg hesitates.

“‘Ask what you are actually asking’.”

Greg smiles; rolls his eyes slightly. “Alright then. Why was it always you, there? At the hospital? Or every time Sherlock was high out of his mind? John says he’s met your parents. Says they’re _nice._ ‘Weirdly normal’, was what he actually said.” He picks up his water glass. “So where were they? I know you’re a bit older, but Sherlock’s not _yours_ to cope with alone, is he.”

Mycroft stares down at his empty bowl. There’s a long moment of silence. “My father was a diplomat. He and my mother spent large parts of every year in a number of different locations. Boarding school was the obvious choice for both Sherlock and myself.” He glances up; then away. “Being away from one’s parents for so long a time – one is left with a vague sense of filial duty, but little more. Interactions tended to be reduced to –” he pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Achievements, or congratulations for them. Our mother – before having children – had taken a PhD in Mathematics at Cambridge, and written a book which is still lauded as an important marker in the field. She prized our intelligence, and it became –” he frowns, slightly.

“The only way to get their attention?” asks Greg.

Mycroft’s eyes flick up, deep with relief. “Yes.” He drops his gaze, long fingers adjusting the position of his knife and fork in the bowl. “In such circumstances, the bonds of brotherhood are not strengthened either. It may sound unbearably entitled – but boarding school, though of great educational advantage, is somewhat akin to constant war. There is no space in which one can escape the constant demands and directives of others. Self-protection is imperative. I failed to look after Sherlock as I should have, and I – reinforced the impression that his intelligence was his only escape.” His tone is bleak as he adds, “I also responded, without fail, when he became an addict. It became another means to garner attention from me, while of course providing a form of liberation and rebellion. I do not know, now, which of my actions was more harmful. In any case, I am undeniably at fault.”

_You were just a kid, doing the only thing you’d been taught. Still better than your parents. At least you cared enough to be there when he was overdosing._

“And now?” asks Greg. “’Cause as I get older the only thing that seems to matter is kindness. But maybe that’s just nonsense from an old copper who’s seen too many murders.”

Mycroft’s thumb brushes the rim of his water glass, a restless back-and-forth. “I should like to be so –” he hesitates. “To have such pure motivations. My mind, I fear, still craves occupation. Satisfaction.” He presses his lips together; looks away.

“And art,” says Greg, quietly. “Creativity.”

Mycroft looks at him; blinks, long and slow. “Yes.”

“You’re kind to _me.”_

Mycroft’s gaze drops to the table. His voice is carefully blank. “You are – have been, for some time – an asset to Sherlock.”

_I know what being an asset to the Holmeses feels like. It feels like hospital visits and warehouse kidnappings and pretending not to watch you cry next to Sherlock’s bed. It feels like improved solve rates and impersonal notes about cases I need to give him and being waved away from your desk like a lackey._

_It doesn’t feel like the past couple of weeks, not by a long chalk._

Greg’s heart pounds in his chest. He smiles, easily. “’S’that all?”

Mycroft watches his smile. His tone is lightly humorous as he adds, “and an incomparable model, of course.”

Greg laughs. “Oh, yeah. You couldn’t get another guy thirty years younger an’ ten times prettier with one quick ad. ’Course not.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes slightly. “Only ten times?”

“Bastard.” Greg smiles.

“I confess, I prefer it to ‘plonker’.”

Greg grins. “Let me just –” he stands, stacking their bowls. “Coffee, yeah?”

“Please.”

Greg sets the kettle going, and takes down the cafetière. He hardly ever bothers making coffee in it; just grabs a quick cup of instant on his way out of the door in the morning. Today he carefully spoons out ground Java and sets it to percolate.

“So –” Mycroft hesitates, looking down at the table.

Greg watches his slight frown, the tentative set of his lips. _Christ. I wish I could draw._ “Go on,” he says, with a smile.

Mycroft looks up. “I am aware you have twenty-eight years of service,” he says crisply. “Which means you must have found your purpose relatively quickly after –” he gestures slightly.

Greg presses down the plunger on the cafetière with one hand, and rubs his eyes with the other. “Yeah,” he says, reluctantly. He takes down mugs, and brings out the milk; carries them and the box of marzipans to the table, followed by the coffee. “Say when.” He pours milk for Mycroft, then himself, and returns it to the fridge.

By the time he returns to the table, Mycroft has started pouring the coffee.

Greg sighs, and laughs slightly awkwardly. “Honestly, it’s…not my favourite story.” He wraps his hands around his mug, relishing the comforting warmth. “Sort of makes me sound…even more –” he shrugs. “I don’t know, Mycroft. I just – you knew what you wanted, right? An’ you always worked for it. But I – things just seem to _happen_ to me. Get out of my control. It must sound chaotic to you.”

Mycroft takes a sip of coffee, and starts to open the box of marzipans. “You spoke about learning the worth of kindness, Gregory. If there is something _I_ have learnt as I have aged, it is that there is no one right way to achieve something. It has been a slow and disorientating realisation, but an important one nonetheless.” He pushes the box towards Greg.

“Thank you,” murmurs Greg, taking a marzipan. He puts it next to his coffee mug, and takes a breath. “So – I met Zoe when I was nineteen.” At the edge of his vision, he sees Mycroft’s shoulders pull back. “We started goin’ out pretty quickly – she came to a bunch of our gigs and –” he gestures, vaguely. “We got serious, whatever that means at that age. An’ I was –” he pauses. “How c’n I put this? A fucking _stupid,_ irresponsible kid.”

Mycroft smiles, slightly, but says nothing.

“It was only a few months ’til she told me she was pregnant.” Greg swallows, not daring to look up at Mycroft. He turns his head away instead, watching the flickering candle on the bookshelf. “I – I was fucking _determined_ not to be like my dad. I was going to be there, for the kid. I went in for the police, because it was something responsible, an’ it seemed like maybe – maybe I _could_ be useful, doin’ that. It wasn’t like it is now, grad schemes an’ all that. A basic test, an’ some fitness stuff, but nothin’ too bad. Mixed feelings about it, because I’d been sleeping with men for a while an’ – d’you remember what it was like, back then? I was ‘underage’, ’f’course, by what it was in those days. God, we feared the cops. But I put that bit of me away, too.” Greg’s heart is pounding. “It felt like – like that’d been another thing I’d done to put two fingers up to the world, but now that wasn’t – an’ I loved Zoe. Wanted her. I’d always liked – everyone. Didn’t question it too much.”

He takes a gulp of coffee, hardly tasting it.

“We got married, quick. Her family weren’t best pleased, but her dad was glad I’d joined the police. An’ then she lost the baby.” He clears his throat slightly. “But we were only twenty. Not sure either of us’d wanted it, really, an’ we knew we’d have plenty of time. She got a job, too, in an office, an’ we bought a house. We – I don’t know. We had fun, for a bit, y’know? Playing house. Playing grown-ups. But Christ, we were kids. Young, stupid kids. An’ we’d both changed everything about ourselves for something that wasn’t there anymore.”

When Greg looks up, Mycroft’s grey eyes are full of sympathy.

“Jesus, Mycroft, tell me if you want me to shut up,” says Greg, with a slightly shaky laugh. “I don’t – talk about this much. With anyone, actually. You’re gettin’ the long an’ boring version.”

“Please continue.” Mycroft speaks quietly.

Greg sighs. “I – got interested. At work. They were down a DC on a murder case, an’ I volunteered. Spent most of that first morning throwing up behind a bush,” he says, with a wry huff of amusement. “But the DI – Peterson – saw potential anyway. He kept me on. It was fascinating, an’ I loved it. The hours started getting longer an’ more irregular, but for a few years we were good. We made friends an’ settled in, on our street – sort of odd, though, ’cause most of ’em had kids, were a bit older. An’ for a while Zoe insisted she wanted kids too, as soon as possible, an’ we tried but it didn’t happen.” Greg runs a hand over his face. “Sounds awful, but I was relieved. I’d found this work I loved, an’ I don’t know.” He shrugs. “We were still only twenty-five or something. Just seemed – soon. An’ we’d started to row, anyway, about me bein’ at work so much. Gettin’ so absorbed in it.”

He takes another sip of coffee.

“Not badly. Not badly enough to break us up, anyway, an’ we still had good times too. But things seemed to shift, then. I’d made DS, an’ I felt a bit more settled. I suggested we start tryin’ for a baby, properly, but it was never quite the right time for her. She took on more at work, an’ when –” he shrugs. “There’s always another case, y’know? It’s easy to get focused on the details.” He looks down at his own hands, wrapped around his mug. “I look back now – I realise I never put her first. Never looked at our life like a plan, like something we’d work on together.” There’s a short silence. “An’ I know you must know about her cheating, an’ don’t get me wrong, that’s not good, but I do blame myself, too.”

Greg looks up. Mycroft is watching him, eyes dark and flickering with candlelight.

“’M’not saying it’s all my fault or anything. Fact is, we never planned our life because we never planned a baby, an’ that’s why we were married,” says Greg, starkly. “But there were a lot of times where I could’ve stopped, an’ looked at us, an’ said ‘I want this with you, and this is when’ and we could’ve…decided, together, y’know? Or not together. Neither of us really…thought. We just – let things happen.”

“I think that is how the majority of lives are lived,” says Mycroft, quietly.

“Yeah, well, doesn’t necessarily lead to a happy ending,” says Greg, with a slightly bitter laugh. “I – things shifted more. She went into primary school teaching, which made her happier for a bit. She loved the kids, an’ I kept suggestin’ we try for our own. Eventually I realised why she didn’t want to. That was the first time, or she said so, anyway.” He clears his throat, staring at the table. “We found a way out of it. I don’t know – it’d been so long, by then. She felt like part of me. I couldn’t imagine…an’ she said she didn’t want…”

Mycroft shifts slightly in his chair, but Greg doesn’t look up.

“I was goin’ for DI. We were tryin’ for a baby, but it didn’t work. Honestly, I’m not sure she ever came off the Pill. I made DI, an’ it wasn’t much later I realised she an’ this bloke from her work –” he looks towards the window. “We went through it all again, an’ this time I left, but she begged – I don’t know why. We had a holiday. We patched things up. We were tryin’ again, properly, for a kid, an’ then Sherlock –” Greg shrugs. “He can see it somehow, can’t he? He dropped that bomb, at Christmas. An’ I just couldn’t take it anymore. It felt like the finish, at last. Worst Christmas of my life,” he says, with a shaky laugh. “Hannah and Ed’s spare room. Watchin’ them, with the boys, this happy family. Jesus Christ. That was not a good one.”

“I am so sorry, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice is just a murmur.

Greg shrugs. “’S’okay. It is, genuinely. The worst thing is, for a long time I – couldn’t trust myself, y’know? After all that. But I think – things’ve changed. I couldn’t go into it like that again. I’d have to be – sure. What I wanted. What they wanted. How it’d be.”

And as he says it, he knows it’s true.

“Of course.” For a moment, Mycroft bites his lip. “If it is any consolation,” he says at last, still with some hesitation, “planning every aspect of life does not necessarily lead to a happy ending either.”

Greg watches him; watches the way he blinks, and takes a breath. _He’s surprised he said that._ “No?” he asks, gently.

“People are – not my forte,” says Mycroft, with a wry half-smile.

Greg smiles. “See, you an’ Sherlock, you always say that. Took me a while, but Christ. Look at how he loves John.” They exchange a look; half a sad smile. “Look at why he takes cases. He says he loves the puzzle – an’ he does – but he helps people. He always, always helps the ones who need it. An’ you –” Greg hesitates. “Look at how you love _him.”_

“He _is_ my brother.”

“Pers’nally I know of three cases you took off me ’cause there were major security worries. I know how much you work. Pretty sure the country an’ its people are a damn sight safer because of it.”

“Ah yes, well, I am paid for that.”

“Guess you’re just an emotionless husk, then, Mycroft.”

“As I have been saying.”

They smile, and Greg eats his marzipan. The dark chocolate melts away into smooth almond. “Mmm, god, that’s amazing. Thanks for bringing ’em. ’Nother cup?” he asks, gesturing to the coffee.

“No, thank you. A delicious meal,” says Mycroft quietly.

“So the art,” says Greg, a bit surprised at his own daring. “’S’that a happy ending?”

Mycroft’s gaze is piercing. “It is a long time since I allowed myself anything so – free. I – hope so. Yes.” He looks down again; hesitates, then speaks. “It seems – unbearably indulgent, sometimes.”

_When all you do is work? But Christ, I know what you mean._ “When work’s important –” says Greg, slowly. “When I know there’s some family out there, waiting for someone to come home – or someone in danger – I don’t know. The idea of practicin’ guitar an’ going to bed –” he shrugs. “I understand.” He swallows. “I’m glad though. ’M’glad you decided to get a studio, an’ a model. ’M’glad it was me, even by accident. I like – knowing you. Better.”

Mycroft does not look up. “I too, Gregory. I appreciate your –” he pauses, thumb restless against the handle of his mug. “It seems that your unerring instinct in dealing with Sherlock extends to me, too.”

Greg stares at him disbelievingly. “You don’t need ‘dealing with’,” he says, with a slight frown. _Jesus. Who taught you you need managing?_ “You’re prob’ly two hundred times more intelligent than me, but you never make me feel thick. You’re _funny,_ Mycroft. You make me laugh. Your drawings –” there’s almost a lump in his throat now. “You make me see myself differently. I love our sessions. Look forward to ’em all week. Honestly.”

Mycroft blinks, several times. “As do I,” he says, at last.

There’s a long, quiet moment.

“Did you bring your sketchbook?” asks Greg, as lightly as he can manage. “Need to make up for this mornin’, after all.”

“Yes,” murmurs Mycroft.

Greg can see reserve in Mycroft’s eyes again, and it feels strange after sharing such honesty. “Don’t feel like you have to draw,” he says. “We could watch a film, or just – talk. Whatever you want.” He collects the mugs, and puts everything away in the dishwasher, allowing Mycroft time to make up his mind. As an afterthought, he takes out his phone and sets up a John Grant playlist, casting to the radio when he’s done. He sets it playing quietly in the background.

Mycroft’s half-smile of recognition makes Greg grin. Sketchbook in hand, Mycroft takes a seat on the sofa. When Greg goes to sit down, Mycroft passes it to him, open at a double spread. On it is a quick, tentative sketch of Greg’s hand on the back of the sofa, and Greg realises it must be from a photo taken at the studio.

“Never thought my hands were that great,” he says, with a smile. “Thick fingers.”

Mycroft half-shrugs. “Interesting to draw.”

Thoughtfully, Greg tucks his feet up onto the sofa. He rests his chin on his knees, and his hands flat along the tops of his bare feet, spreading his fingers irregularly. _Still strange sometimes, not seeing a wedding ring._

Mycroft turns towards him on the sofa, crosses his legs and picks up a pencil. The glance he gives Greg is full of amused admiration.

“What?” smiles Greg.

“Unerring,” is all Mycroft says in return.

Greg laughs softly, not moving. “’S’good to have an appreciative artist. Some of ’em think you’re just a lump of clay. Some of ’em don’t give a shit if you’re uncomfortable, as long as they get what they want. An’ some of ’em blame _you,_ if their picture doesn’t go right.”

Mycroft frowns slightly. “Pure bad manners.”

“Well, when you’re up in front of a class, there’s always a selection.” Greg smiles. “’S’long as the teacher’s good, it’s usually fine. They can tell the arseholes to shut up.”

“As a delicate and sensitive creator,” says Mycroft blandly, “it _is_ annoying when the mindless mannequin one has hired does not comply with one’s wishes.”

Greg huffs a laugh against his knees. _“Bastard.”_

“Especially when it insults one –”

“Lucky I’m such a professional, Mycroft, or I’d move enough to kick you just a little bit.”

Mycroft smiles, still sketching.

“You must’ve been to life-drawing classes?” asks Greg. “No way you’ve not done it before the other week.”

“At school, yes. A few times at university. Never, after that.”

There’s quiet, for a while, Greg drifting as he listens to the music.

“The other night, Gregory, your messages –”

“Oh, god,” mumbles Greg. “’M’so sorry about that.”

Mycroft shakes his head, not looking up from the drawing. “There is still something I find cryptic,” he says, with quiet amusement.

“Yeah?” asks Greg, wincing.

“Why do you imagine chess to be a deciding factor in my choice of partner?”

Greg laughs. “Oh, god. I was so pissed –” he tries to remember not to move his hands. Mycroft says nothing, and Greg sighs. “If you really want to know – I was picturing the kind of guy you must date. Clever as hell. Cultured. Prob'ly into opera and chess.” He can feel himself blushing, and takes refuge by resting his forehead against his knees. He feels Mycroft shift slightly on the sofa.

“I responded that I have not ‘dated’ anyone in a long time.” Mycroft’s voice is full of rigid control. “And it was true.”

“How long’s a long time?” asks Greg. He half-expects a curt rebuff. His heart is racing, and he’s finding it hard to keep his breathing even.

“If I understand ‘dating’ to comprise a long-term sexual relationship…” Mycroft glances up, and Greg nods, once. “Then I suppose twenty years.” He presses his lips together. “Other, rather more casual arrangements – there have been one or two. Infrequently.”

“Tell me to fuck off if you want but –” Greg takes a breath. “Didn’t you ever want – I don’t know. A partner?”

Mycroft does not look up. “I am an essentially selfish human being, Gregory. I refused to unbend enough to allow time for life outside work. It would have been unfair to ask anyone to adapt to that. I made my choices, and they were an unenticing prospect.” His voice is blank.

_Oh Christ. Who told you that?_ “Maybe you jus’ never met anyone you liked more than your work.”

Mycroft blinks, still looking at his drawing. “Perhaps.”

“You make time for drawing.”

“Yes. I am attempting to do so, now.” Quietly, he adds, “those I have – dated – have been remarkably close to your surmise.”

“Yeah?” Greg’s heart sinks, but he fights to keep his voice level. “’S’that mean I’m a good detective?”

“The proof of that is in your success, not in my personal history.”

_I’m making him uncomfortable._

“Not like you need a partner, Mycroft. Wasn’t trying to say you have to be with someone.” He speaks easily, keeping his voice relaxed. “Guess it’s just on my mind at the moment.”

“I understand.” Mycroft holds out the sketchbook. “A quick impression.”

Greg takes the book, and smiles. “God, Mycroft. _This_ is why I know all your spiel about bein’ an emotionless machine is total crap. Look at this – the feeling you can get into a picture of my big clumsy feet an’ hands. ’S’beautiful. All your drawings are.”

Mycroft frowns slightly, but Greg can tell he’s suppressing a pleased smile. “You are far too effusive about a simple practice sketch, Gregory. And if I am to be branded an idiot for comments about my waistline, you are certainly not allowed to insult your own extremities.”

“Y'know I’m right though. This – it’s gorgeous, Mycroft. Are there – any others I c’n look at in here?” he passes the book back.

Mycroft flips through a few pages. He glances up at Greg, then holds out the book.

_The guitar pictures._ There are a few different small sketches on one double spread: Greg frowning as he concentrates; biting his bottom lip; smiling triumphantly. The drawings make his breath catch, make his heart beat faster. He’s almost afraid.

_I look happy._

Greg glances up, catches Mycroft’s eye. “People _are_ your forte,” he says, quietly. “You shouldn’t tell yourself they’re not.”

“The difference between drawing someone and understanding them is profound.” Mycroft looks away. “I see muscle movements creating expressions which suggest certain emotions. I am not misguided enough to believe that this could possibly give me an insight into people’s true thoughts and feelings.”

“Why?” asks Greg. “It’s all the rest of us have to go on. An’ trust. Choosing the right people to trust, for the right reasons.”

“Trust is not a commodity I often deal in, Gregory.”

_Good line, Mycroft. Very politician. Pull the other one._ “If you were drawing me now, what would my face be saying?” He shifts on the sofa, pulling his legs up beneath him, leaning his head on his hand, elbow propped on the back cushions.

“Amusement. Scepticism.” Mycroft hesitates. “Admiration.” He looks away, knitting his brows slightly.

“D'you trust it? That I’m actually feelin’ those things?”

“…Yes.”

“Why?”

“I have had a chance to study your expressions closely over a number of weeks. They seem consistent.”

“D'you trust that I’d tell you if you were wrong?”

Mycroft looks at him, grey eyes searching. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Your record of kindness and loyalty to Sherlock. The considerate behaviour you have displayed towards me, not only in these past few weeks, but in the time when Sherlock was regularly succumbing to his addiction.”

_My ‘considerate behaviour’? Christ, Mycroft. You’ve got no idea what you’re like, have you?_

Greg’s heart hammers against his ribs.

“D'you see other expressions, too? When I look at you?”

“On viewing the drawings – disbelief, often. At other times – pity. Fascination. I –” he clears his throat slightly. “Sometimes – fondness, I think.”

“’F’course fondness,” says Greg, gently. “Mostly when you’re bein’ an idiot. I don’t _pity_ you.”

“Occasionally – for instance as I spoke about my relationship history –”

Greg looks away. “That’s – I think _it’s_ a pity you haven’t found anyone. ’Cause you’re great. But Christ, I don’t pity you. As if I could.”

There’s a long moment of quiet.

“Let it be known, then, that despite your typically fair-minded and thoughtful analysis of the situation with your ex-wife, I deplore her actions. And I too –” Mycroft swallows, not looking up, “believe it is a pity that you do not have a partner, since you wish for one.” He takes a breath, and when he speaks again, it sounds as though he’s forcing out the words. “Someone will be lucky.”

Greg’s heart lurches in his chest. “Was it a _good_ relationship?” he asks, at last.

Mycroft looks up, quizzically, then takes a breath. “I was twenty-four,” he says, slowly. “And thought myself quite sophisticated. Quite grown-up. I already had more responsibility at work than was – typical. He was somewhat older than me.” He looks up at Greg, grey eyes suddenly piercing. “After so much time has passed – I believe the relationship was not particularly equitable. It was mostly conducted on his terms. I found that – hard to deal with. And dismissed the need for companionship.”

_There’s so much more behind what you’re saying, and I’m not sure I’ve got the courage to dig for it._

“You’re very diplomatic,” says Greg. “Feel like I’m not gettin’ the full story. I’m going to go ahead an’ hate him anyway, just in case.”

Mycroft raises one eyebrow, and Greg laughs.

“’S’what friends do,” he shrugs. “Take your side, even when it’s not reas’nable.”

Mycroft glances away, suppressing a smile. “I ought to return home, Gregory. I have an early work meeting.”

_Fuck._

“Ugh. Trying not to think about work tomorrow.”

“Perhaps you should bribe yourself with an almond croissant.”

Greg grins. “Not the same without you. I c’n wait ’til Sunday.”

Mycroft puts on his shoes, and Greg hands him his coat and sketchbook. Time seems suddenly to have sped up; to be racing by. _I’m fucking this up, and I don’t mean to, but I am anyway. Like everything that happens to me._

Greg holds the door open, and smiles as Mycroft steps out into the hallway. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thank you for a delightful meal.” Mycroft hesitates; looks as though he may say something else; doesn’t.

“We should do this again,” says Greg, leaning against the doorframe. _Please don’t go away thinking you’re some kind of chore, like someone seems to’ve made you think._ “I had fun.”

“As did I.” But his tone is that of the cultured diplomat.

_Did you?_ Something tugs behind Greg’s heart, and for a moment he can hardly breathe.

“Mycroft. Wait.”

Mycroft’s already gone down a couple of stairs, and when he turns, one hand on the banister, his expression is one of elegant confusion.

Greg fumbles with the lock on his front door, turning it twice to make sure he won’t get locked out. He’s shaking.

He steps closer, and he’s just slightly taller than Mycroft, like this. “’M’sorry,” he says, quietly. “This might not be – you don’t have to. Say no. But I –” he takes a breath. Mycroft’s eyes are wide. “’M’just – letting things happen again. I don’t know if you c’n see it or not, I don’t know if you’d even –”

He stops. Breathes.

“This is what I _actually_ feel, when I look at you.” He stands for a moment, looking Mycroft directly in the eye. He tries to let everything show.

Mycroft’s eyebrow flicks up, reading the invitation to look, to _see._ And then he frowns slightly, puzzlement in his eyes. Finally, he bites his bottom lip. “Gregory –”

He sounds uncertain.

Slowly, tentatively, Greg puts his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “What d'you see?” he murmurs.

Mycroft does not react for a moment. Then he swallows. “Admiration,” he says, quietly. “Apprehension. Interest.”

Greg nods, but doesn’t say anything.

There’s a silence. Mycroft’s voice is slightly constricted when he says, at last, “attraction.”

Greg takes a breath, and smiles. “Yeah.” He lets his thumb shift back and forth gently against the thick tweed of Mycroft’s suit jacket. “D'you trust it?”

Mycroft’s eyes are dark grey and searching. “Yes,” he says, at last.

Slowly, watching Mycroft’s reactions, Greg moves his hand up and lays it gently along Mycroft’s pale cheek. Leans in, until they share breath. Presses their lips together.

It’s slow, and it’s gentle.

They move just slightly closer together; and _we could have hard and fast, but I want –_

_I want to get this right._

Greg pulls back, fighting his own need for more.

“I want to get this right,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against Mycroft’s. “I want – I want to think. Both of us. An’ get it right.” He takes a breath. “Yeah?”

They both pull back, gazes locked.

“Yes,” breathes Mycroft. He looks dazed. “I –” he gestures downstairs. “I shall go.”

Greg strokes the fine line of Mycroft’s jaw with the pad of his thumb. “Goodnight, you.”

“Goodnight, Gregory.”

Eventually, Greg hears the downstairs door close. He turns, goes back inside his flat and locks the door after himself, heart pounding, cheeks flushed.


	9. Chapter 9

**[06:23] Hi :) xx**

**[06:24] Hello. MH**

**[06:25] Sleep okay? xx**

**[06:26] Not a great deal. MH**

**[06:28] Yeah, me neither. Are you okay? xx**

**[06:30] Yes. And you? MH**

**[06:31] Really good, as long as you are :) xx**

**[06:32] Then be assured on that front. MH**

**[06:33] :) Already at work? xx**

**[06:35] Naturally. And you? MH**

**[06:36] Not yet. Finished my shower but I need to get ready. Sitting here grinning like an idiot texting you instead. xx**

**[06:37] I am glad to see that the quality of idiocy is not restricted solely to me. MH**

**[06:38] Definitely not, when it comes to you. xx**

**[06:39] Go to work, Gregory. MH**

**[06:40] Alright. I suppose. xx**

*

**[21:35] Seems like such a long time until Sunday. Hope you had a good rest of day yesterday. xx**

**[21:37] Are you at home, Gregory? MH**

**[21:38] Yeah. xx**

**[21:39] Then I believe I have won this week’s competition. MH**

**[21:41] Mycroft, it’s only half nine. Willing to bet I’ll have to stay longer than that at least one day this week. xx**

**[21:43] You do not know what time my meeting is due to end. MH**

**[21:44] What time? xx**

**[21:46] On current estimates, two in the morning. MH**

**[21:47] Ugh. *Why*? xx**

**[21:48] Obfuscation and pomposity. MH**

**[21:49] Jane Austen’s lost novel? xx**

**[21:50] Something more Helleresque, I fear. MH**

**[21:52] Well after a quick Google…are you talking about Catch 22? xx**

**[21:53] Indeed. Which might feel rather familiar to you in its description of endless administrative toil. MH**

**[21:54] Well I’ll have to borrow it from your bookshelves sometime :) xx**

**[21:58] Feel free. Meeting beginning. MH**

**[21:59] Good luck, you. xx**

*

**[09:46] A late start this morning. MH**

**[09:48] You call that a late start, after you were at work until 2? xx**

**[09:49] 3:30, in the end. MH**

**[09:51] You don’t sleep enough, Holmes. xx**

**[09:52] Undoubtedly that is true. MH**

**[09:54] Keep thinking about Sunday. xx**

**[09:55] Next, or last? MH**

**[09:56] Both. Should I have kissed you more? Asked you to stay? xx**

**[10:02] Part of me says a resounding ‘yes’. It means a good deal to me, however, that you are interested in thinking carefully about this step. MH**

**[10:03] I meant it. I want to do this right. Have a plan. Make it work. xx**

**[10:03] Is that too much pressure? xx**

**[10:07] I should find it difficult - perhaps impossible - to take such a step without careful consideration. I have made it clear, however, that I can be guilty of agonising too much. MH**

**[10:08] A balance, then :) xx**

**[10:10] Indeed. MH**

**[10:12] You can’t find work decisions so difficult though, right? With what you do. xx**

**[10:14] Work - largely, the application of logical solutions to various problems - does not present the same kind of challenges. You scold me for saying that people are not my forte, but… MH**

**[10:15] I know you spend most of your work life getting people to do what you want. xx**

**[10:18] Manipulation for political ends, indeed - but surely a healthy relationship between two adults should not be approached, or thought of, in such terms? MH**

**[10:19] After so long, and engaged in such work on a daily basis, it can be hard to trust my own motivations. MH**

**[10:20] You know what? I think you do really bloody well. xx**

**[10:25] I should not be texting you like this, Gregory. I am, nominally, working. MH**

**[10:27] Same here. Can’t concentrate knowing you’re textable though. xx**

**[10:28] We must agree not to distract one another. What time do you return home tonight? MH**

**[10:29] Well always a bit unpredictable depending on murders and the like. If nothing like that happens…7ish probably. xx**

**[10:30] I shall message you again this evening, then. MH**

**[10:30] Text you later, you. Have a good day xx**

*

Greg’s just made it to the sofa with his dinner – pea risotto and parmesan – and turned on the news when his phone vibrates with a text.

**[21:06] I trust your afternoon and evening have remained murder-free? MH**

**[21:07] Sometimes I wonder what your lot must think when they look through my texts. But yes. You home too? xx**

**[21:09] Yes. Cooking dinner. MH**

**[21:10] What you having? I’ve got risotto. And just put the news on xx**

**[21:12] Omelette. Are you sure your choice of programming will aid digestion? MH**

**[21:13] Oh dear. Bad news day? :) xx**

**[21:15] Please excuse my moroseness, Gregory. MH**

**[21:16] Wish I could give you a hug. xx**

**[21:17] That is kind. MH**

**[21:18] Hey, you sound down :( Can I help? I could give you a call. Or tell me what’s up by text xx**

**[21:22] Merely a long day after a short night’s sleep. I am sure I shall have recovered by tomorrow. MH**

Greg frowns at his phone; puts it down next to him on the sofa, then restlessly picks it up again. _What’s wrong? Does he not want to say because it’s something to do with work? If it’s_ – his heart sinks, and he bites at his bottom lip. _It was pretty intense earlier. But he wouldn’t’ve texted me, would he? If he was freaking out about that?_

He feels blind, away from Mycroft like this. _I’ve got no way of telling what’s wrong. Maybe if he was here with me I could work it out, or get him to talk, but like this_ – Greg rubs his eyes.

**[21:26] I don’t want to push and keep asking you what’s wrong but I’m here to talk if you can. Just can’t wait till Sunday to give you a massive hug. xx**

**[21:30] And kisses xx**

**[21:32] You have sent me plenty. MH**

**[21:33] Not quite the same as the real thing xx**

**[21:36] Are you worrying after we talked earlier? xx**

**[21:42] I fear that my propensity to over-consider things may draw you too deeply into a liaison. MH**

Greg’s heart lurches in his chest. _That’s what I bloody want, though, you idiot._

**[21:44] Why? xx**

**[21:48] We hardly know one another, Gregory. We have no idea whether we are compatible. MH**

**[21:49] Compatible? Isn’t that up to us to decide though? xx**

**[21:50] I am concerned that you are committing too deeply to something which may be ultimately unappealing when you investigate it further. MH**

**[21:52] What are you on about, Mycroft? That’s what all relationships are. Fancying someone. Hoping it works out. Trying to find the best way to make that happen. xx**

**[21:54] You cannot possibly know if you ‘fancy’ me. You hardly know me. MH**

Greg goggles at his phone, and puts his bowl of risotto down on the coffee table.

**[21:55] WHAT? xx**

**[21:56] Have you already forgotten what you saw when you looked at me?**

**[21:57] Are you honestly saying you don’t think I can just *want* you, Mycroft?**

**[21:57] Because I have some possibly surprising news for you**

**[21:58] Christ. Could you really not see the other night how much I wanted to ask you to stay here with me**

**[21:58] Answer that question, it wasn’t rhetorical xx**

Greg runs restless fingers through his hair, heart pounding.

**[22:03] I am unsure what to say, Gregory. I saw attraction, I am certain of that. But it can, of course, take many forms. MH**

Greg takes a breath, shuts his eyes for a moment, then opens them again.

**[22:05] Afraid I’m a simple man Mycroft. Mine takes the form of really really wanting to go to bed with you xx**

**[22:06] While also thinking you’re brilliant in lots of ways - funny, intelligent and kind (don’t debate that last one with me) xx**

**[22:09] I see. MH**

**[22:10] What does that mean? xx**

**[22:14] I do not understand how you can be sure. MH**

Greg stares at the message, half-amused, half-nonplussed.

**[22:15] Sorry Mycroft but - do you want to have sex with me? xx**

**[22:18] Yes. MH**

**[22:19] How can *you* be sure? xx**

**[22:22] You have spent the past few Sundays partially naked in front of me. You are a very attractive man. MH**

Greg’s stomach tightens with a strange mix of confusion, worry and arousal.

**[22:23] You were right there in front of me too! Just because I haven’t taken your clothes off yet doesn’t mean I don’t want to (I do) xx**

**[22:27] You must agree that there seems little point committing to anything before you know whether you are attracted to me or not. MH**

Greg rolls his eyes. _Jesus Christ, a Holmes spiralling…always a sight to behold._

**[22:29] Don’t tell me whether I find you sexy or not! Not your job to judge.**

**[22:29] Only way to solve this: start sending me nude pictures immediately**

**[22:30] Or you could draw naked on Sunday. Naturists swear by it. xx**

**[22:32] You are making fun of me, Gregory. MH**

**[22:33] Only a little bit. And very very fondly. xx**

**[22:35] You are impossible. MH**

**[22:36] Why, because I’m not going to decide in advance the whole idea’s terrible because we haven’t shagged yet? Nah**

**[22:37] Silly man. You’re sexy as hell *in* your clothes. Very safe to assume I’m going to find peeling them off you even sexier xx**

He knows he’s taking a chance with that. But Mycroft’s spiralling, looking for a reason to decide it’s not worth trying at all. He needs distracting.

**[22:40] Your distraction tactic is nonetheless…effective. MH**

Greg grins, trying to ignore the fact that he’s half-hard in his jeans. _Posh bastard._

**[22:41] You see right through me, hmm? xx**

**[22:45] The same could be said of you, Gregory. What I said at dinner applies: you are skilled at understanding and dealing with my behaviour. MH**

**[22:46] You don’t need dealing with, Mycroft. No more than anyone else in the world. Whoever gave you that impression needs a swift kick in the pants. xx**

**[22:49] You are kind. MH**

**[22:50] Not being kind. Just telling you the truth xx**

**[22:52] Perhaps your continued association with my brother has hardened you to our ways. MH**

**[22:53] Maybe you’re just a quiet, thoughtful, intelligent, creative bloke used to hiding himself for work. Maybe I just really like you. Maybe I wish you were here so I could tell you in person, take your clothes off, slowly, piece by piece, and take you to bed. xx**

**[22:56] Slowly? MH**

Greg bites his bottom lip and takes a breath. He’s fully hard now, cock pressing rather uncomfortably against the zip of his jeans.

_Haven’t spoken to anyone like this in a long time._

The fact that it’s _Mycroft_ on the other end of this conversation, _Mycroft_ responding – even if guardedly – hot arousal pools in his stomach and fizzes down his spine.

**[22:58] Didn’t think you’d appreciate me ripping all the buttons off one of your fancy shirts. xx**

**[22:59] Such behaviour has its own appeal, on occasion. MH**

**[23:00] Noted. xx**

**[23:01] Eaten barely any of my dinner, thanks to you xx**

**[23:02] I confess my own evening meal has gone untouched. MH**

**[23:03] You need to eat mister. xx**

**[23:04] As do you. MH**

**[23:05] I’m all wound up. Christ, Mycroft. xx**

**[23:07] That is an accurate description of the state I too find myself in. MH**

**[23:08] You’re making it worse. xx**

**[23:09] As are you. MH**

**[23:10] Shower and bed for me. xx**

**[23:11] An excellent plan. Goodnight Gregory. MH**

**[23:13] Night, you. Sleep well…when you do. xxx**

*

**[07:32] Good morning. MH**

**[07:33] Yes, what a good morning it is, isn’t it? xx**

**[07:35] Indeed. MH**

**[07:36] Really…good. And morning. xx**

**[07:37] You are ridiculous, Gregory. MH**

**[07:38] Well, you’re sexy and clever, so you had to leave me with something xx**

**[07:40] Truly ridiculous. Have a good day. MH**

**[07:41] Well it’s already a good morning, so. xx**

*

**[21:51] How was the rest of your day, Gregory? MH**

**[22:16] Case - sorry. On scene. Text later xx**

*

**[05:04] Still up, back at the office. Have I won? xx**

**[05:13] Undoubtedly, I fear. MH**

**[05:17] I didn’t wake you up did I? xx**

**[05:25] No. Is there any prospect of you being able to return home soon? MH**

**[05:32] Unlikely. Coffee and pushing on for a few more hours xx**

**[05:36] I hope that the coffee is decent, at least. MH**

**[05:42] I doubt you’d think so :) It’s just about keeping me alive though. We’ve got probably an hour’s wait for some prelim forensic results - going to use the showers then go & get some better coffees for the team. They’ve all pulled a blinder last night/today xx**

**[05:47] It comes as no surprise to me that you are an appreciative and thoughtful boss. MH**

**[05:51] Ha! Tell that to Sally when I’ve had a crap night’s sleep & nothing comes together. She might have some opinions for you ;) Just getting in the shower. Text later xx**

*

**[16:42] Urgh… xx**

**[16:44] You have not yet had time to return home? You must now be extremely tired. My apologies, but I shall be joining another meeting in a moment. MH**

**[16:45] Not yet :( Going to have to go soon, can’t think straight anymore. Have a good meeting xx**

*

**[00:05] I trust that you are home and sleeping peacefully, Gregory. MH**

**[00:13] xxxxx**

*

**[06:24] Sally’s picked me up - back out for interviewing. Knackered. On the bright side, can’t wait to see you tomorrow xx**

**[07:11] I am glad that you were able to sleep. MH**

*

**[21:03] Glad the bulk of the running around for that case happened over the past few days, instead of cancelling tomorrow :) xx**

**[21:09] Fortuitous indeed. MH**

**[21:12] You alright Mycroft? xx**

**[21:17] If I am to be entirely honest - I must confess to a certain apprehensiveness about our meeting tomorrow. MH**

**[21:18] :) I’m nervous too. Mostly in the good way though - butterflies xx**

**[21:22] I hope that you are not disappointed. MH**

**[21:23] Am I allowed to hug you? xx**

**[21:24] Naturally. MH**

**[21:25] What about kissing? Any objections? xx**

**[21:27] None. MH**

**[21:28] Can’t see where this mysterious disappointment would come from then… xx**

**[21:30] Eight o'clock, as usual? MH**

**[21:31] Course :) You get the coffee on, I’ll bring the croissants. xx**

**[21:33] Until tomorrow, Gregory. MH**

**[21:34] See you then, you. xx**


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mark continues to torment us all with his art](https://twitter.com/Markgatiss/status/1051243991046516736) and your comments continue to make me so very happy. Thank you ❤️

“Sorry’m a bit late,” says Greg, pushing open the studio door. “Queue in the bakery, at this time on a Sunday! Hope someone famous hasn’t been tweeting about it or something, I was gettin’ worried there’d be no almond croissants left by the time I got to the front.” He holds up the bag. “There were, don’t worry.”

Mycroft is standing in the window, framed against the light, as he had been in the very first session. This time, his hands are wrapped around a mug of coffee, and he smiles gently. He seems very still, somehow; full of restraint. “What a relief.”

_He’s nervous, isn’t he,_ thinks Greg, swallowing against the tightness in his own throat, the fluttering in his stomach. _Doesn’t know what happens now._

There’s a slightly awkward silence developing, and Greg’s only other conscious thought before he moves is _fuck this._

He strides to the table, drops the bag of croissants on it, then steps around it to the window.

Mycroft moves back, making space; but Greg steps closer, with a gentle touch to his arm. Takes the mug of coffee, and places it on the table. Smiles.

“’S’good to see you,” he says, simply. “At last.”

Mycroft swallows.

His stillness is a kind of protection, Greg realises; a refusal to take – to _ask._

Greg’s heart thunders in his chest. It’s hard to keep his breathing level. Slowly, he lets his hand move to Mycroft’s; a tentative touch, fingertips brushing Mycroft’s wrist, his thumb –

“Missed you,” he murmurs.

Mycroft blinks, three times.

“C’n I have a hug?” asks Greg, with a sheepish smile, because suddenly the nerves and the anticipation and the fiery current of _you, here, with me,_ coalesce into an overwhelming need to be close, somehow, _anyhow_ –

And Mycroft’s eyes find his, light grey in the golden autumn sunrise. The moment feels slow, heavy, and Greg has time to notice every darker-grey fleck in those deep, understanding eyes.

It feels like something he’ll never forget.

They move together, breathing unevenly, and Greg buries his face against Mycroft’s neck as they hug.

“I am glad to see you too,” murmurs Mycroft after a few moments. His words reverberate as a buzz of feeling in Greg’s ear, against his chest. “Gregory –”

“Mmm?” asks Greg, nuzzling soft skin. “What, you?”

Mycroft takes a breath. “I – do not know, exactly,” he says, and Greg can hear the wonder behind those words. “So much seems to have passed.”

Greg nods against Mycroft’s neck; smiles softly. “Yeah.”

“With you here…” Mycroft doesn’t finish his sentence, but his arms tighten slightly around Greg’s waist.

_Oh, god._ Greg hums approval; kisses at a freckle. “’S’how it is, I think,” he says, quietly. “So much easier when you’re together. Tell what the other person’s feelin’. What they want.” He feels dizzy with the reality of this: _holding Mycroft. Being here._

Greg pulls back slightly; smiles up at Mycroft, at the tentative hint of a frown betraying his worry – presses up on tiptoe, chest bursting with need and nerves and _please_ –

It’s slow, just a soft brush of lips to start with; and Greg can’t help smiling into it, because here’s _Mycroft,_ mysterious, aloof, cold – _thoughtful, quiet, talented_ – kissing him.

_Kissing me_ – and Greg’s breath catches, his hand coming up to lie against Mycroft’s neck, fingertips restless on his nape. Mycroft makes a noise, a muffled gasp which has Greg pulling him closer, biting softly at his bottom lip –

“Really, _really_ missed you,” whispers Greg, kissing the corner of Mycroft’s mouth.

“And I you,” murmurs Mycroft, chasing another kiss. “Come _here.”_

“Am here.” Greg can’t help grinning, happiness expanding inside his chest, light and free. He wants – he _wants_ –

Taking Mycroft’s hands, he pulls him around the table, to the centre of the room. They wind together again, desperate to be close, but after a minute Greg drops his jacket to the floor, pushes off his shoes. He doesn’t try to fight his own smile.

Mycroft, more tentative now, with a half-step of space between their bodies; watching as Greg sheds t-shirt and jumper, pushes off jeans and socks. Eyes wide, and he’s still, but not frozen. His expression full of thought, full of sincere, half-amused admiration.

Greg smiles, and it’s returned: a brief kiss, a small parting that makes something in his chest ache. But he nods, and Mycroft steps to the easel. Greg drops his boxers to the floor.

He lies down on the sofa, right leg drawn up, knee bent; left leg tipped softly over towards the easel. He brings his arms up, knots his hands at his temple, elbows wide, head turned to keep his eyes fixed on Mycroft’s. Arches his back a little, bringing the lines of his ribs and hips into relief.

He’s hard, of course, but it hardly matters just now. The knowledge of being seen _by this man_ runs warm and darkly pleasurable in his blood. _Not for now._

“What should I change?” he asks, softly.

“Nothing.” Mycroft’s voice glows with certainty. “Remain exactly as you are.”

Greg smiles. “You sure?”

“Unerring,” says Mycroft, with a warm half-smile. The look they exchange makes Greg take a breath.

Mycroft turns the easel slightly, and Greg can watch him now; can see half his face, his right hand, the way his gaze runs over Greg, over the paper, planning –

_Christ. Watching him watching me might just be the death of me._

Time slows, for Greg; he drifts, but it feels different. He feels aware of every inch of his own skin, aware of Mycroft with his whole mind and body. He watches the play of expression across Mycroft’s face, the concentration, the intrigue of discovery, the occasional slight frowns of frustration as he fails to transfer something to paper with the necessary delicacy, the desired deftness of touch.

He wonders, idly, if Mycroft is as hard as he is; if he wants him, just now, or whether that laser focus is elsewhere, overriding desire.

He fights the urge to shift his hips.

_Never happened, in the end, when I was a kid. Seems incredible, now. Looking back, it feels like I was always hard or needing to get off, as a teenager. And that was the thing I was most terrified of, before the classes – getting hard, embarrassing myself. Not that I could tell Mum or Rita that’s why I kept saying no, although in retrospect I’m sure they guessed._

_But it just – wasn’t sexy. Nothing about it felt charged, not like that. It was relaxing, more than anything. Half the time I was fighting not to fall asleep._

“You are smiling.” Mycroft’s voice is quiet, and full of warmth.

Greg grins; returns to the present. “Want me to stop?”

“No.” He says it firmly. Greg watches the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles.

“Might be ruinin’ your very serious nude study.”

“Oh, perhaps. But then, it might not be your _smile_ that does that.”

Greg snorts a laugh, trying to stay still. “Not my fault. Maybe you should leave.”

“How, then, might I complete my drawing?”

“’S’a dilemma, darlin’, I know.”

The word hangs in the air a moment, and Greg takes a breath, unsure; Mycroft blinks, cheeks tinting pink.

_Cool as a cucumber watching my cock throb for him, but ‘darlin’’ makes him blush._ Greg’s chest hurts with how much he wants to hug him.

_Jesus Christ, when was the last time I wanted someone so much – and like this?_ Greg closes his eyes a moment. _Always wanted him, of course, but he seemed…I’d’ve laughed if you told me he got nervous, or embarrassed, or – well, no, I’ve always been able to imagine him turned on, but the other night, texting, knowing he was wound up like me – knowing he was in the shower too, thinking about me, getting off to it_ –

_Hardest I’ve come in a while._

_Knew he got exhausted, ratty, amused – I’ve seen him with Sherlock, after all – and I knew his heart broke over his brother time and again, back then. But I figured it was a family thing, an intelligent-people thing – like Sherlock was worth caring for, because of the way they think._

_Turns out he just didn’t have anyone else._

Greg’s wrists and shoulders are aching, hands locked together above his head.

_I wonder when – if – he’ll want to sleep together. Christ, maybe don’t think about that,_ he adds internally, his stomach tensing. _He can’t possibly be in any doubt about how much I want him, anyway._

He watches Mycroft, who is still pink-cheeked; watches his focus, his attention.

“I love seein’ you work.”

“You will make me self-conscious, Gregory.”

Greg huffs a laugh. _“I’m_ the one with all my kit off.”

Mycroft’s eyes catch his, a fleeting glance. “And you have no reason for self-consciousness.”

“No?” Greg resists the urge to grin.

“No, as well you know.”

Greg’s smile is gentler now. “Still. ’S’nice, you telling me. I was worried, you know. The first session. Thought ‘John Grant’ was going to tell me to fuck off for being too old and too soft round the middle.” He swallows nervously.

There’s a flicker of genuine surprise in Mycroft’s expression before he raises one eyebrow. “I am flabbergasted, Gregory. I confess it had not occurred to me that you might be anything other than perfectly well aware of your own attractiveness.”

Greg laughs, surprised. “God. I don’t come off as some sort of cocky twat do I?”

Mycroft half-rolls his eyes. “Not in the slightest. I simply assumed you owned a mirror.”

“Mycroft Holmes, you’re a cheeky bastard when you want to be.”

“You were perfectly well aware of _that_ before today.”

“’S’true.”

Mycroft purses his lips at him, but his eyes are crinkled with amusement. _Fondness?_ Greg’s heart seems to turn over in his chest.

“You know,” says Mycroft quietly, after a few moments, “your stomach is quite delightful to draw. No artist would turn you away because of it.”

“Plenty to practice drawing?” asks Greg, but he’s just winding Mycroft up really. _Mostly._

Mycroft gives him a look. “Toned muscle covered by a _light_ layer of fat – far less than might be expected for a man of your age – suggesting an active lifestyle. Defined inguinal crease and hipbones. Overall, both interesting and attractive to draw.”

Greg grins. “Good to get the detached, artistic perspective.”

“I do not know that ‘detached’ is necessarily the word I should have chosen.”

Their eyes meet. Greg’s heart thumps, fast and hard. “Even better to know you’re biased.”

Mycroft drops his gaze. “Hopelessly, I fear,” he says, quietly.

“When’re you going to be finished?” asks Greg.

Mycroft’s expression sharpens, concern in his eyes. “Are you uncomfortable?”

Greg smiles. “’M’fine. Could just do with kissing you again. Anytime, really. Pref’rably now.”

Mycroft looks away, then up at Greg through his eyelashes. Lips pursed against a smile, he looks unsure all the same. He places his pencil on the easel.

“Hey,” says Greg, gently. “’S’alright. Finish what you’re doing. I’m okay for a bit longer. Don’t want to ruin the pose.”

Mycroft hesitates, and Greg watches the fine play of expression across his face.

“Or take a picture, if you want.”

Mycroft looks up. “You are sure?”

“Sort of assumed your photos don’t back up to the cloud, anyway,” grins Greg. “Maybe I’m wrong.”

Mycroft smiles. “You are not.”

“I mean, never, _ever_ let Sherlock nick your phone.”

“No. Quite.” Mycroft takes a breath; seems about to speak; does not.

“Go on, you.”

“Gregory – I should like to assure you that –” he clears his throat slightly, not making eye contact. “The photos I have already taken in previous weeks – and these – they are art references _only.”_

Greg’s heart squeezes. “Take the photos, so I can stretch out.”

Mycroft stands at the easel, and takes a couple of pictures with his phone. “You may move, Gregory.”

Greg groans and stretches luxuriously, reaching his arms high above his head, arching and then flattening his back. When he opens his eyes, Mycroft has retreated behind the easel.

“Hey. C’mere, you,” says Greg.

Slowly, Mycroft emerges into view, hands in his pockets. The gesture – so unlike his usual demeanour – makes Greg’s heart _ache._

Mycroft’s eyes are dark grey, his expression carefully blank.

Greg kneels up on the sofa and holds out his hands. “Darlin’,” he says, with a soft smile. He feels, quite suddenly, confident – knows, even without looking, that Mycroft’s drawing of him will be beautiful.

Mycroft steps quietly closer, and kneels on the floor in front of the sofa. Everything about the pose is both humble and unsure.

Greg bends over, hands framing Mycroft’s face; kisses him lightly on the lips. “Wanted to do this, every time,” he whispers.

It’s worth pulling away for a moment to watch the shiver of Mycroft’s expression, the way he tries to hide his surprise.

“What you said about the photos,” murmurs Greg. “I know that, alright? You’re a good man, Mycroft.”

The fleeting crease at Mycroft’s brow betrays his doubt; but Greg presses a kiss quickly to his temple, half-shaking his head.

“I – want you to know,” says Greg. He swallows; hesitates, watching Mycroft’s eyes. “I _like_ you wanting me, alright? If you do. It’s welcome. I _want_ that. Knowing – the other night, that you – ’s’gorgeous. An’ I’m not talking about just – bein’ wanted. I’m talking about because it’s _you.”_

Mycroft blinks. “Gregory,” he says, at last, and Greg’s heart aches.

_He sounds – defenceless._

“C’n I kiss you again?” asks Greg, smiling, seeking a lighter tone. He nuzzles Mycroft’s cheek.

“Naturally.” Mycroft says it with his usual dry humour, but his eyes are deep, and full of a grateful kind of wonder.

Greg presses his lips to the corner of Mycroft’s mouth; then again, quickly, and Mycroft gives him a look of mock frustration.

“Lestrade.”

Greg laughs, huffing his amusement against Mycroft’s cheek. He shakes his head slightly. “Say it properly.”

“Gregory Lestrade.”

“Mm-mm.”

“Detect–”

Greg nips at Mycroft’s bottom lip, not lingering for a kiss. “No.”

Mycroft gives him a knowing look, but he can hardly repress his smile all the same. “Gregory,” he murmurs, grey eyes wide and soft.

“Mmm,” hums Greg happily, nuzzling the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “Once more.”

“Gregory,” whispers Mycroft, and the sound vibrates in the sliver of space between their lips.

“Yes,” whispers Greg in return, and then they’re kissing, needy, lips and tongues and biting, pressing closer for _more, please, more_ –

Greg kneels forward on the edge of the sofa, tipping Mycroft’s head up further, brushing their lips together; then he shifts, and supporting himself on his arms, slides off the edge and into Mycroft’s lap.

Mycroft makes a noise of surprised appreciation, low in his throat; Greg kisses along his jaw, licking and biting at freckles when he finds them. Mycroft’s arms wrap around his waist, pulling him close.

“‘If’,” murmurs Mycroft, after a while.

“Mm?” asks Greg, pressing a chain of kisses down Mycroft’s neck.

“You said – ‘if’ I want you. I – do. All the time.” It’s said quietly, like a secret.

Greg bites softly at Mycroft’s throat, then kisses his way back up. His heart’s pounding with this new shared truth. He rubs the tip of his nose against Mycroft’s.

“Thank you for tellin’ me. I want you all the time too.” He takes a breath. “This week’s been – ’m’so glad we’re here, now.”

“I too.”

Gently, Greg pushes at Mycroft’s shoulders, and they shift, laughing, until they’re lying on the floor, tangled together.

“There is a perfectly serviceable sofa _just there,_ Gregory,” says Mycroft, with mock exasperation. “And yet here we are.”

“Mmm,” smiles Greg, kissing Mycroft’s earlobe. “Here we are.” He runs his lips down Mycroft’s neck. “Drives me mad, you with these open collars.”

Mycroft huffs amusement, but his cheeks are pink with pleasure. “You are easily pleased.”

“When it’s you,” murmurs Greg, drawing him into another kiss, “seems like I am.”

The kiss extends, deepens, and they pull one another closer until there’s no space between them. Greg slips his hand into Mycroft’s hair, caresses his neck; Mycroft’s just as hard as he is, and they press together, just a layer of clothing separating them –

“Gregory,” gasps Mycroft, at last. “Do we – I –”

“’M’sorry, I know, darlin’, I know,” murmurs Greg, against his lips. He closes his eyes, breathes, presses their foreheads together. “’S’get this right, okay? D’you want to stop?”

Mycroft takes a long breath in. “No,” he whispers, but there’s hesitation in his voice.

Greg opens his eyes, smiles into Mycroft’s. “You still worried I don’t fancy you?” he asks with a grin, gently teasing.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “My fears on that score have been somewhat allayed.”

“Mmm.” Greg kisses his nose. “Good. Damn right.”

_Are you worried I just want a shag, darlin’?_

He kisses Mycroft’s jaw, then his neck. “You’re addictive,” he murmurs. “We way over time?”

“I should imagine so,” says Mycroft. “I drew for quite some time. Though we did not eat breakfast.”

“Mm, you’re right there.” Greg pries himself away from Mycroft; kneels, then stands. He brings the bag of croissants back with him and takes a seat on the sofa; grabs Mycroft’s hands, pulling him up to sit with him. “Can’t have that. C’mere.”

Slowly, Mycroft curls against him, responding to the prompting of Greg’s hands. For a moment, it looks as though he may speak.

“What?” asks Greg, pressing a kiss against Mycroft’s cheek. “Hmm?”

“What are you doing, Gregory?”

Greg smiles, and reaches for the bag of croissants; tears a piece off one. “Breakfast.” He brushes it against Mycroft’s bottom lip. “Open.”

Mycroft raises one eyebrow, and Greg rolls his eyes, trying to suppress a smile. He puts the piece of almond croissant in his own mouth instead, groaning approval.

“Didn’t realise how hungry I was.”

“I shall make you a coffee –”

Greg holds him, stops him from getting up. “’S’fine. Stay here with me.”

“But –”

“Rather have you than the coffee.”

“You are strange.”

“You’d pick coffee over me?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Of course not.”

Greg tries not to smile; tries not to point out how like Sherlock Mycroft can be. “Here. Have some breakfast.” He holds out the bag.

Mycroft tears off a small piece of croissant and puts it in his mouth.

Greg resists the urge to chase it with a kiss. “Guess you’re going to be busy this week?” he asks.

Mycroft shrugs, slightly. “As usual.”

Greg nods. “Let me know if you get an evening to yourself, yeah? We could go for dinner, maybe, or coffee, if you haven’t got long – anyway. A date, if you fancy it.”

Mycroft blinks; swallows the piece of croissant. “Gregory,” he says, cautiously. “I – some minutes ago, we were –” his cheeks flush pink.

Greg nods. “Yeah. But things – take time. To get right. I want things to feel – right. Perfect, I mean.”

Mycroft looks at him for a long, quiet moment. “Unless there are last-minute changes,” he says, “I should be finished with work at seven on Wednesday.”

“Go out on a date with me, then?” asks Greg, smiling at him.

“Yes.” Mycroft takes a breath. “Certainly.”

“Can you stop anyone getting murdered on my patch that night?” asks Greg, with a grin.

“I could have the corpses moved.” Only the slightly mischievous sparkle in Mycroft’s grey eyes conveys any sense of a joke.

Greg takes another piece of croissant. “Also works, I s'pose.” He huffs a laugh. “I should put some clothes back on, darlin’. Really hope that building over there can’t see in here.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth curls in a smile. “They cannot. The glass has been treated.”

Greg grins. “Brilliant. You _can_ draw naked then.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, cheeks tinting slightly pinker. “Gregory.”

“Mm?”

“You are ridiculous.”

_“I’ve_ got all me bits out.”

“You are a _model.”_

“Yeah, well, you’ve got to let your – y'know. Artistic expression flow. Be wild and free, an’ all that.”

“My artistic expression works best under several layers of clothing.”

“Well that’s what you think at the _moment,_ but –”

“Ridiculous.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your gorgeous kind comments x

**[21:53] I apologise for this morning, Gregory. MH**

Greg finishes hanging up his shirt for the morning, and stares at the message, nonplussed.

**[21:57] What for? xx**

**[21:59] I am aware that my behaviour may have raised expectations which I then failed to satisfy. MH**

Greg bites his lip, narrowing his eyes at his phone.

**[22:01] It’s not your responsibility to satisfy anything, Mycroft. We’re both grown men and are perfectly capable – I assume – of getting ourselves off. Getting off isn’t what I want with you. Eventually I’d love to have sex with you. The kind where everyone really wants to be there and therefore has a good time. Can’t rush that. Don’t want to try. xx**

There’s no answer for a couple of minutes, and Greg’s heart sinks.

**[22:03] Does that make sense? You okay? It’s not because I don’t want you. I just want you to feel safe and happy xx**

**[22:05] It makes sense. I am grateful. MH**

_Grateful._ Greg stares unhappily at the word. There’s a cold feeling in his stomach.

**[22:08] Myc…I’ve got a not-great feeling about your last relationship. You said it was unequal. Just…if there’s anything I should know, please tell me. It won’t change anything I feel about you. xx**

He sends it, and winces. _He’s the most private person you’ve ever met. What makes you think he’d share anything like that with you?_

**[22:14] But I’m not fishing for details. Just here if you want to tell me anything. xx**

**[22:22] Your instincts are, as ever, good. I left that relationship with the impression that a certain amount of sexual relief must be provided to the partner with the higher sex drive in order to prevent infidelity or other dissatisfied behaviours. I do not find it easy to tell you this. MH**

**[22:23] Course you don’t. Nothing about that’s true though. Hope you know I don’t think like that. Cheating’s not something I’d do, no matter what. xx**

**[22:23] And the idea of being ‘provided’ with sex without the other person being happy with it is disgusting.**

**[22:24] I want *you* not just random sex for relief. xx**

**[22:24] You are a good man. MH**

**[22:25] Yeah well don’t tell me that other fucker’s name. If I don’t know I can’t look up his address. xx**

**[22:27] ‘Myc’. MH**

**[22:28] You’ve been calling me Gregory. xx**

**[22:29] I suppose that is true. MH**

**[22:30] It wasn’t too much, this morning? I can get dressed after you finish drawing. Just tell me what you’re comfortable with, ok? xx**

**[22:32] Being able to touch you at last was extraordinary. MH**

Greg’s stomach flips with arousal and nerves.

**[22:33] God Myc, you too. Loved every second. xx**

**[22:34] Tell you what though – you really can’t keep paying me for Sunday mornings. Don’t want anyone asking questions about what exactly I’m being paid for, haha! xx**

**[22:35] Good grief, Gregory. MH**

**[22:36] You know there are bastards from both our jobs who’d be happy to look at it in the worst way possible. xx**

**[22:37] It is true. Perhaps we should keep Sunday mornings to a strictly professional arrangement. MH**

**[22:38] Are you absolutely sure you won’t want to kiss me in the studio? Other stuff, maybe, when we’re ready? Cos I’m bloody not :)**

**[22:39] I’d have done it unpaid in the first place, but you insisted**

**[22:40] I’d rather be free to do what we want when we want. I don’t need the money xx**

**[22:41] Very well. But you must allow me to pay for dinner on Wednesday. MH**

**[22:42] No way – this one’s on me. Whoever picks the place gets to pay. International dating rules :) By the way, do you like Korean food? xx**

**[22:44] Yes, very much. MH**

**[22:45] Brilliant. There’s this place one of the constables took us to. Her boyfriend’s Korean and loves it there. The kimchi pancakes were amazing xx**

**[22:46] That sounds dangerously tempting. MH**

**[22:49] Good :) Are you getting ready for bed? I’ve got my stuff ready for the morning and going to get to bed soon. xx**

**[22:51] Before too long, certainly. MH**

**[22:53] Come on, you. You’re probably getting up in four hours or something. xx**

**[22:54] This gives me the impression you are messaging from my bedroom, Gregory. I shall be disappointed not to find you there. MH**

**[22:55] Wish I was, you. Come to bed. xx**

**[22:57] How do you usually fall asleep? MH**

**[22:58] Radio or a book. You? xx**

**[22:59] I read, or listen to an audiobook. MH**

**[23:01] What are you reading/listening to? xx**

**[23:03] To sleep, I am listening to A Fine Balance. I have read it before, some years ago. MH**

**[23:05] Want to know a secret, Myc? xx**

**[23:06] If you wish to tell me. MH**

**[23:08] You might worry about being attractive to me, but I worry about being clever enough for you. xx**

**[23:09] You are, Gregory. By far. Leaving school at sixteen does not make you unintelligent. Please believe me – I am sincere in this. MH**

**[23:10] I’m sure you are, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be able to talk about books with you or keep your giant brain busy. xx**

**[23:12] Is that your responsibility? Or even what I must crave? I have a career which satisfies the latter requirement. A brother who can be relied upon as a sparring partner, on occasion. And perhaps you forget: I may read widely, but my degree was not in literature studies. I do not engage at the level of critical theory. You correctly surmised that I have had brief liaisons with several men rather like myself in tastes and habits. Please reflect on the fact that these were brief. Transitory. Fleeting. Ultimately, unsatisfying. MH**

**[23:14] But…won’t it just mean you feel like you can’t really talk to me about stuff that interests you? xx**

**[23:15] Do you feel that about me? MH**

**[23:16] No, not at all. I think you’d listen xx**

**[23:17] I imagine that you would do the same. MH**

**[23:18] I would. Just don’t want you feeling like you’re dating an idiot. xx**

**[23:19] Do not be absurd. MH**

**[23:20] Oh so now I’m absurd *and* an idiot? xx**

**[23:22] Impossible man. MH**

**[23:23] I know, I know :) We should be asleep. xx**

**[23:24] I have come to bed. It is disappointingly empty and cold. MH**

**[23:25] :( You’ve entirely failed to turn up in my bed too though. xx**

**[23:26] That is true. Forgive me. MH**

**[23:27] I do. Forgive me? I’ll make it up to you in kisses. xx**

**[23:28] Those kisses? MH**

**[23:29] Real-life kisses. xx**

**[23:30] Then you are entirely forgiven. Pending payment. MH**

**[23:31] How do you sleep? On your back? Side? xx**

**[23:32] My left side, usually. And you? MH**

**[23:33] Generally start on my side and wake up on my back. Probably snore terribly. Years since I shared a bed with anyone properly. xx**

**[23:34] I cannot imagine you wearing pyjamas. MH**

**[23:35] Ha! Just boxers, most nights. I imagine you have fancy pyjamas. Can you get pyjama sets with cufflinks??? xx**

**[23:36] Thank you, Gregory. You are hilarious. I wear brushed cotton pyjama bottoms. MH**

**[23:37] I probably shouldn’t find that so bloody sexy should I xx**

**[23:38] I cannot imagine a reason why you should, but I suppose the bizarre kinks of human sexuality must indeed be never-endingly diverse. MH**

**[23:39] Cheeky bastard. xx**

**[23:40] (It’s because it’s *you*. Just in case you didn’t get that.) xx**

**[23:41] Strange man. MH**

**[23:42] Idiot. xx**

*

**[06:41] Good morning. You’re gorgeous xx**

**[06:43] And you are quite devastatingly handsome. MH**

**[06:45] Oh Mr Holmes, you’re making me swoon. xx**

**[06:49] Go to work, Gregory. MH**

*

**[14:00] Miss you. xx**

**[14:25] I shall message you tonight. MH**

*

**[22:54] It is late, Gregory, but I have just arrived home. I hope the rest of your day passed acceptably. MH**

**[22:56] Nearly asleep. Glad to hear from you though. xx**

**[23:00] I am sorry not to have been in touch earlier. MH**

**[23:01] Not your fault. Long day for you. Have you had dinner? xx**

**[23:02] At the office, some hours ago. MH**

**[23:04] Is it weird that I miss you here with me, even though we’ve never slept together (I mean…actual sleeping) xx**

**[23:05] I fear I feel the same. MH**

**[23:06] You fear? :) xx**

**[23:16] This is no small thing for me, Gregory. MH**

**[23:17] Me neither, beautiful. xx**

**[23:18] Thank you. MH**

**[23:19] Tell me one detail about your day you haven’t told anyone else. xx**

**[23:22] When I arrived at work this morning it was still dark. At ten I took my coffee and some notes onto the balcony because I felt the need for air and sunshine so strongly. And yours? MH**

**[23:23] This morning my phone sent me a ‘remember this day’ notification from five years ago – a picture with Zoe. It didn’t hurt. xx**

**[23:26] Gregory. An additional detail: standing on the balcony, I looked towards New Scotland Yard as though I could perhaps see you. And then felt enormously foolish. MH**

**[23:27] Myc…I can’t stop thinking about you. All the time. It didn’t hurt because I know you like me and you wanted to kiss me. xx**

**[23:28] *want  MH**

**[23:29] You’re a romantic, Mr Holmes. xx**

**[23:30] As are you, Detective Inspector. MH**

**[23:31] Probably best if soppy bastards like us date one another. xx**

**[23:32] I expect so. MH**

**[23:33] Goodnight beautiful. xx**

**[23:34] Sleep well, Gregory. MH**

*

**[07:37] Good morning, happy Tuesday, and what suit are you wearing? xx**

**[07:39] And why might you wish to know that, Gregory? MH**

**[07:42] I bet you could have guessed this but: I find you extremely attractive xx**

**[07:44] I see. A dark grey tweed blend three-piece with cream shirt and burgundy tie. MH**

**[07:46] Right. Brilliant. Sounds perfect. You should know I’ve not made any of the first four comments that came to mind. xx**

**[07:47] Why? MH**

**[07:48] You know perfectly well why. xx**

**[07:49] ? MH**

**[07:50] Bastard. Two of them were cheesy pick-up lines. One of them was a bit too cheeky. The other one was just disgusting xx**

**[07:51] Regrettably I must go. But I shall wish to know more later. MH**

**[07:52] Later, you. xx**

*

**[19:36] 24 hours till I see you, probably :) xx**

**[19:52] I look forward to it. In meeting. Until later. MH**

*

**[00:52] I apologise for the lateness of my return, Gregory. I hope that you are sleeping well. MH**

*

**[06:16] Happy Wednesday xx**

**[06:21] Good morning. MH**

**[06:22] Are you nervous? I’m really nervous again. xx**

**[06:24] Yes. I fear so. MH**

**[06:25] Dating’s so stressful. xx**

**[06:26] I…apologise? MH**

**[06:27] You should. Making me want to be happy and enjoy life. Bastard. xx**

**[06:28] Dangerous ambitions indeed. MH**

**[06:29] It sounded better than ‘kiss you until my ancient heart probably explodes’ xx**

**[06:30] Avoidance of the heart attack would be preferable. MH**

**[06:31] Well I agree, but that’s in your hands. What suit are you wearing? xx**

**[06:32] I should prefer to retain the element of surprise. MH**

**[06:33] I hope this place has a defibrillator. xx**

**[06:34] You are ridiculous, Gregory. MH**

**[06:35] So you say. I’m not the one dressed to kill. xx**

**[06:36] I can guarantee that – no matter what you wear – your effect on me will be the same. MH**

**[06:37] Are either of us going to get through this alive? xx**

**[06:38] We can but hope. MH**

*

**[10:04] Can’t concentrate. xx**

**[10:05] Gregory Lestrade, you are a Detective Inspector. Lives depend on your attention, your keen and thoughtful application. You are essential. MH**

**[10:05] …I cannot, either. MH**

**[10:06] Git. xx**

*

**[19:07] I am in the car. MH**

**[19:09] I’m walking over. xx**

**[19:11] It is chilly this evening, Gregory. Should I have sent a car? MH**

**[19:13] Too nervous. Wanted the walk. xx**

**[19:14] We have already had dinner together, Gregory. There is no logical reason for either of us to be apprehensive. MH**

**[19:17] And is that logic working on *you*, mister? :) xx**

**[19:19] Decidedly not. MH**

**[19:21] Nah, me neither. Nearly at Shaftesbury Avenue. xx**

**[19:23] Not long until I arrive. MH**

**[19:24] Going to wait outside for you. Important question: assuming I shouldn’t kiss you in public? xx**

**[19:25] Regrettably, it might be best if you do not. MH**

**[19:26] I think that’s your car xx**

**[19:27] It is. Could you get in for a moment? MH**

*

Greg grins, and opens the door of the discreet black car that draws up next to him. He climbs in, dropping onto the back seat next to Mycroft. _Navy suit. Lavender tie. Fuck._

“Don’t kidnap me,” he smiles. “I’ve been looking forward to those pancakes.”

“I should not dream of it,” says Mycroft, and his voice almost makes Greg shiver.

“Hmm,” returns Greg. “Track record suggests –”

Mycroft’s fingers tangle with his on the seat between them, and for a moment Greg has to fight not to lose his breath.

“I confess I – wanted just a moment alone with you, Gregory.”

Greg turns towards him; slides closer on the back seat. “Better make the most of it, then.”

Mycroft’s eyes are wide, and dark grey; when Greg kisses him, there is the hint of a groan deep in his throat. They breathe together, and Greg slips his arm around Mycroft’s waist.

“Missed you. So much.”

“And I you.”

Greg takes another kiss, long and slow, the pad of his thumb smoothing softly along the line of Mycroft’s jaw. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, at last.

“We should go inside,” says Mycroft, after a few moments.

“We should.”

Neither of them move, and Greg’s grin makes Mycroft smile in return. He looks away, presses his lips together, and straightens his back. “Out, Gregory.”

Greg presses one more kiss to his lips, quickly, and opens the car door; steps out, and fights the urge to hold his hand out to help Mycroft.

_Food. Yes. Eating. Because that’s a thing I want to do. Instead of taking Mycroft home and exploring every inch of his pale skin._

“Ready, Mr Holmes?”

“Quite ready, thank you, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are so thoughtful, and so encouraging. Thank you for your comments, more than I can say. ❤️

Once they’re seated, Greg pours them both tap water. He’s nervous, hands restive. He presses his palms together under the table.

Mycroft is very straight-backed, very still. “Thank you,” he says, when Greg has filled his glass.

“We’ll order some other drinks?” asks Greg. _Christ. I need one. We were kissing, just now, in his car – so why the hell am I so nervous?_

“Yes.” Mycroft turns the menu to Greg, long fingers flexing.

“You know what you’re having?”

“Plum wine.”

Greg smiles. “You’ve been to Korea?”

“Seoul, yes. Two years ago.”

“Wow. Did you get to see much of it?” he makes eye contact with Mycroft. “Um, sorry – I was assuming it was for work –”

Mycroft gives a quick flick of a smile. “Indeed. I was lucky, on that occasion. I had half a day without meetings.”

Greg grins. “Luxury.”

Mycroft’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Sadly, yes.”

“Go on then – what did you see?”

“The essentials only – a quick visit to the palace, followed by a walk around the traditional village area of the city. And –” Mycroft looks guilty for just a moment, “– some time spent in a bookshop café.”

Greg can’t help a fond smile. “You actually feelin’ guilty about spending time in a café instead of sightseeing the whole time?”

Mycroft drops his eyes, trying to suppress a slightly baffled answering smile. “Some people might think it a – waste of time, in a foreign city.”

Before Greg can answer, the waiter appears and asks if they want drinks. Greg orders himself a Korean beer, and Mycroft requests plum wine; Greg remembers to ask for some of the kimchi pancakes as a starter, too.

“D’you speak Korean?” asks Greg, resting his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand.

Mycroft’s eyebrow flickers slightly. “A little. Not well. Not sufficiently for a diplomatic mission.”

“But for sightseeing, asking for stuff in cafés…”

Mycroft’s head tips slightly to the side. “It is passable.”

_He’s so hard on himself._

Greg smiles, gently. “More than I’d ever manage.” He takes a sip of water. “What time of year were you there?”

“Autumn. It was quite spectacular.” Mycroft’s voice is quiet, but there’s a spark of bright enthusiasm in his eyes that can’t be hidden. “Rich yellow ginkgo tree leaves, across the city, in Namsan Park…” he trails off as the waiter approaches with their drinks and starter, looking down at the table.

“Would you like to order?” asks the waiter, a diffident-seeming man with an eager-to-please smile.

“We’ll need a bit more time,” says Greg kindly. “Couple of minutes.”

They confer over the menu, and when they’ve decided, Mycroft orders.

Greg swigs his beer, and watches him speak: the unselfconscious way he pronounces the Korean words; his quiet confidence and poise. He thinks about home, tonight, and texting Mycroft until he falls asleep. He thinks about crawling under the table, now, and –

He blinks that thought away.

The waiter leaves, and Mycroft’s attention is returned to Greg; he tips his head, too observant –

“So this place prob’ly isn’t up to your usual standards,” says Greg, quickly, nodding around at the small restaurant, the totally unfussy decor. He takes a pancake, puts it on his own plate.

Mycroft shoots him an amused glance. “The quality of the food and the hygiene are what matter, and I am assured that both are excellent.”

Greg grins, and gestures at the plate of pancakes with his knife. “Try. I hope you like ’em. Not going to lie, I’d had a couple of pints last time I was here, you know what work things are like –”

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow. “You envisage my team ‘down the pub’ together…?”

Greg snorts a laugh. “Myc…”

Mycroft presses his lips together. “Myc,” he mouths silently, rolling his eyes. All the same, there’s a suspicion of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

The pancake’s delicious. Greg drinks some more of his beer and watches Mycroft try it, the slight lift of his eyebrows as he registers how good it tastes. He casts Greg a slightly guilty look, and Greg quickly focuses back on his own food.

“Would you go back?” he asks. “Y’know – f’more than half a day. Look around properly. Have a holiday.”

Mycroft’s eyes are dark grey. “I should be happy to.”

Greg looks at him. “When was the last time you had a holiday?”

Rueful amusement flickers across Mycroft’s face. He takes a sip of plum wine.

“Jesus, Myc.”

“And you?” he retaliates.

Greg breathes out. “You know when. After we’d – decided on the separation. The divorce. Finally.”

Mycroft’s expression is complicated, for a moment; but his eyes are full of sympathy. “I am sorry, Gregory.”

Greg shakes his head; grins. Under the table, he moves his foot, finds Mycroft’s. It doesn’t move away. “Don’t worry.”

The other food starts to arrive: poached pork, seafood noodles, delicately marinated sea bass. When the waiter has left again, Greg gestures at it with his chopsticks. “D’you think we’ve got enough?”

Mycroft huffs amusement. “We do not _have_ to finish it all.”

“Pfff. I take it as a challenge.” He signals to the waiter that he’d like another beer. “You alright for wine?”

“Thank you, yes.”

“Y’know,” says Greg thoughtfully, “you ought to take a break. Go away somewhere. Just draw. Have more time for it.”

Mycroft’s half-shake of the head is slightly disbelieving. “Perhaps I ought. It is simply not practical, unfortunately.”

“God, I know what you mean. Work…” Greg shrugs; sighs. “Still. Normally get a bit of time with Hannah and Ed and the boys ’round Christmas. Couple of lie-ins. God, this sea bass is amazing.”

Mycroft takes some, and tries it. “Indeed,” he murmurs. Then, eyelids lowered, “I am not sure how close to Christmas you will wish to continue our Sunday meetings –”

Greg’s heart seems to twist in his chest. He presses his foot against Mycroft’s. “Guessin’ you get busy around then,” he says, easily. “But whenever you’ve got time, let me know, yeah?”

Mycroft blinks, and looks up; glances quickly away, when he sees Greg watching him. “Certainly,” he returns. “It is true that there are always a number of functions and events in December, but I would wish – if possible –”

“’Course,” says Greg, quickly. Then, “hope fucking _Jasper_ won’t be at any of ’em.” He says it with humour, but he means it all the same.

Mycroft half-smiles; his grey eyes are soft. “Thank you for thinking of it. There will be no trouble, I am sure.”

Greg grimaces. “Just let me know, alright? If you need backup. Unless we’ve got something big on at work, I’d leap at the chance to tell that slimy bastard where to shove it.”

Mycroft’s expression is complicated. His long fingers caress the stem of the glass of plum wine. “How gallant.” It’s said with his usual touch of ironic humour; but his eyes linger on Greg’s face, and Greg is suddenly very aware of the contact – even wearing shoes – of their feet beneath the table.

He’s not particularly hungry any more. He puts down his fork, and takes a swig of beer. The bottle is cool, sweating condensation against his palm.

_How can you make me want you with two words and a look? You’re not even trying to._

_Fuck. Don’t scare him._

He smiles. “You got a busy next couple of days?”

Mycroft tips his head; almost a shrug. “No more so than usual. And you?”

Greg huffs a sigh, leaning back in his chair, running his hand through his hair. “Christ, I hope not. If I don’t catch up on the stack of paperwork from last week, the Super’ll kill me herself.” He finishes his beer.

Mycroft’s eyebrow-flick is sympathetic. He finishes his wine and places his cutlery neatly in the centre of his plate, long fingers arranging it exactly to his satisfaction.

“Pudding?” asks Greg.

“I cannot,” returns Mycroft regretfully, and Greg wonders, _why? ’Cause you worry about how you look? Or ’cause you’re full?_

_God knows you’ve nothing to worry about, beautiful._

“Oof, me neither,” he sighs, running a hand across his stomach. “Don’t think any of them taste like almonds here, anyway.” He smiles at Mycroft.

Mycroft’s eyes are warm with the shared knowledge, the gentle joke.

_Look at how you are with a friend, beautiful. You’d never say people aren’t your forte if you could see yourself now._ Greg realises he’s staring, making Mycroft self-conscious. He drops his gaze, lacking something to do with his hands now that his beer is finished. He folds his arms on the edge of table instead, leaning forward. “We could walk?” he says. “I know it’s cold, but we could find a place for coffee.”

“Certainly.” Mycroft looks around for the waiter.

“Oi.” Greg gives him a mock-stern look. “Don’t you go tryin’ to pay, alright? I said, it’s my shout this time.” He catches the waiter’s eye.

“After you have declined to take payment for your modelling services –” protests Mycroft weakly.

Greg grins. “Yeah, well, good reason for that.” The waiter arrives, and Greg puts his pin into the card machine, praising the food. When the waiter leaves, Greg adds, “honestly, stop worrying about it. I really, really don’t need the money. Not like I need to keep myself in fancy suits.”

Mycroft gives him a quick, amused glance. They stand, pull on their coats; leave the restaurant amid thanks from the waiter.

Outside in the cold, Greg rubs his hands together and buries them in his coat pockets.

They stand close together; Greg feels almost edgy, full of a magnetic need to touch Mycroft. He hunches and then rolls his shoulders instead, shuffling his feet.

“Where d'you want to…”

“Actually –” Mycroft looks down at the pavement, lips drawn tight, hesitating. “My home is close by, if you – I have coffee.” His eyelashes flutter, but he doesn’t look up.

Greg takes a breath; lets the wave of surprise and excitement crash and resolve, low in his stomach. _Calm down, idiot._ “Sounds great,” he says, calmly. “Walking distance, is it?”

Mycroft’s grey eyes fix on his. “Five minutes, thankfully. It is somewhat colder than I had expected.”

Greg smiles and produces a pair of thick, warm woollen gloves from his coat pocket. “Put them on.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rise slightly as he takes the gloves.

They start to walk, and Greg responds to the unspoken question. “There’s all sorts in this coat,” he laughs. “Survival kit. Feel like you’re freezing to death, standing on some shitty bit of Thames beach at 3am a few feet from the corpse of some poor bastard, watching the SOCOs finish up and knowing the DC jumped the gun in calling you but there’s no point going home – nowhere to get coffee –”

He produces a woolly hat from the other coat pocket and pulls it on. “’S’my glamorous ‘crime scene’ look.” He grins up at Mycroft.

“Charming,” returns Mycroft, with a quick flick of a smile. “My only complaint is that it hides your hair.”

Greg scoffs. _“Complaint?_ Christ, you’re an odd one, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft frowns at him. “You have wonderful hair, Gregory.”

Greg bumps their elbows together. “’F’you say so.”

“I do.”

Greg’s stomach twists in an odd way when he looks down and sees Mycroft wearing his gloves.

_Christ, how can that make me feel like this?_

_When was the last time I was this torn up by someone?_

Mycroft’s street is a posh one, wide and silent, a curving rank of imposing white townhouses. Their footsteps echo along it.

Mycroft draws to a halt in front of a broad navy-blue door, Number 27. He retrieves his keys from his pocket. The silence between them is a little awkward, now; Greg tries not to think about what being here might _mean._

_Doesn’t mean anything, idiot. Just coffee, then he’ll call me a car, or I’ll get the Tube_ –

Mycroft opens the front door; steps inside, drawing off Greg’s gloves, and disables an alarm with deft taps of his long fingers.

Greg takes his hat off as he steps over the threshold, and looks around the hallway. _Stairs,_ he realises. _Not a flat – the whole place is his._

_Christ. Must’ve cost millions._

“A privilege of the job,” murmurs Mycroft, and Greg realises that his thoughts are showing on his face. “It is not legally mine.”

“Sorry,” says Greg, automatically.

“Why?” Mycroft has taken off his shoes and hung up his coat. He is quiet and still, standing with his back to the front door.

“I – dunno,” says Greg, with a sheepish grin. “Feel like I’m being…nosy.”

Mycroft half-smiles, reaching for the light switch. “I invited you, Gregory.” He steps past, making for a doorway on the right. “I shall prepare coffee.”

Greg pushes off his shoes, hangs up his coat, then follows Mycroft through the doorway.

The kitchen is beautiful: grey marble countertops, copper saucepans gleaming on the shelf. It is spotlessly clean. The kettle is boiling.

Greg pads in socked feet to where Mycroft stands. He places the fingertips of his left hand gently in the centre of Mycroft’s back. “Hey.”

Mycroft turns, grey eyes bright and deep.

Greg smiles, and goes up on tiptoe; slips his arms around Mycroft’s neck. “Kiss me.”

Mycroft’s breath catches, just a little. He blinks; his fingers rest softly on Greg’s hips. As they kiss, his hands slide into the small of Greg’s back, drawing him close.

“I confess, I wished greatly to do this during dinner,” he murmurs, between kisses.

“God, Myc,” smiles Greg. “’S’good to hear you say that. ’Cause…I couldn’t think about much else. Prob’ly wasn’t very coherent. Sorry.” He bites gently at Mycroft’s bottom lip, soothing the place with lips and tongue, kissing a line along Mycroft’s jaw. He reaches Mycroft’s collar and huffs a groan. “Not used t’you being all dressed up. Used to you wearin’ your Sunday clothes.”

Mycroft’s eyelashes flutter. “And which do you prefer?”

Greg laughs softly. “Both. Neither. Long as it’s you.”

“Neither?” Mycroft’s voice is low and breathless; slightly amused.

“You know that, darlin’,” smiles Greg. “Don’t you?” He puts both hands on Mycroft’s face; presses a soft kiss to his lips. “Shall we make that coffee?”


End file.
